


A Million By Tuesday

by splix



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. <i>AU: Gordon Shappey's disgruntled ex-employee, Douglas Richardson, seeks revenge by kidnapping Gordon's trophy husband, Martin.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The full prompt can be found [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=12484577#cmt12484577). Martin in peril is very appealing to me. :D
> 
> Thanks to kimberlite for being a splendid friend and beta.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/splix/media/cumberbatch/35041d28-2a41-41c0-87e9-88619421d600_zps68de3d17.jpg.html)  
> 

"I've got…you…under my skin…I've got you deep in the heart of me…so deep in my heart that you're really a part of me…no fluid leakage, no inlet-outlet obstructions, no missing parts…under my skin…." 

What a fine day. A marvellous day, in fact: warm, sunny, blue skies from here to forever, and the prospect of Formula One racing, superb cuisine, and abundant pleasurable company in six or so hours. Douglas tapped a little rhythm out on the underside of GERTI's fuselage, and headed for the Portakabin, whistling. Monte Carlo! Clichéd as it might be, Douglas loved the place, particularly during the Grand Prix de Monaco – it was nonstop excitement, and Gordon Shappey insisted on settling there three days before and after the event, and Douglas was compelled to remain in case Gordon needed to fly at a moment's notice – not that it ever happened. Gordon concentrated on wining and dining the guests he was so terribly eager to impress, and if Douglas was obliged to lodge in more modest accommodations than Gordon, that was just fine. Not even the tawdry hotels in Monte Carlo were _really_ tawdry. Douglas sighed contentedly. Life really was grand.

He let himself into the Portakabin and started at the sight of Gordon and his solicitor, Hollis Barton, both wearing grey suits and identical grim expressions. Piles of paper sat on the table in front of them, weighted by a sleek laptop. "Why, hello," Douglas said pleasantly. "Hope I haven't interrupted anything. Mr. Shappey, I've completed the walk-around, so we can depart at your convenience." He glanced around, but saw no sign of Gordon's much-younger partner, Marvin or whatever his name was. "I take it your guests haven't arrived yet."

"Not yet," Gordon said. "Sit down, Richardson."

Douglas set the logbook and his hat on the table and seated himself. He looked from one man to the other. "Goodness, such long faces, gentlemen."

"Get on with it," Gordon said.

Barton cleared his throat. "Mr. Richardson, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Oh, dear," Douglas said.

"Yes." A few endless moments ensued in which Barton chose to slide the computer to one side, shuffle through his papers, then exchange one stack with another and tidy them both as if the fate of nations hung upon his meticulousness. 

Douglas waited patiently and watched Barton's fingers, then Gordon's, which drummed restlessly on the table's plastic surface and which bore two rather ostentatious diamond rings. Even one was in somewhat dubious taste, in Douglas' considered opinion, but two was really pushing things. True, one did appear to be a wedding band of sorts, but combined with the heavy gold Concord he wore (ringed with diamonds, also a trifle dubious. More than a trifle, come to think of it) and his shiny, overpriced suit, gold collar pin, and gold-and diamond tie-bar, the overall effect was that of a mob boss suffering a near paralysis of insecurity. A shame, really. Gordon was a good-looking man. And a wretched specimen of humanity, a writhing mass of greed and malice, but who was Douglas to judge? A week in Monte Carlo, a decent salary, and a fairly generous pension was worth the occasional witnessing of Gordon Shappey's soul-crushing avarice.

"Yes," Barton repeated, with a final tapping on his papers for emphasis. "Not good, I'm afraid. Mr. Richardson, you're aware, of course, that we're in the midst of a global financial crisis."

"I seem to recall reading something about it in the papers," Douglas remarked, and in a heroic effort, refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Yes. Well. As to that." Barton cleared his throat. "It's struck us all. You mightn't be aware of it, but –" He leant forward confidingly. "Even my wife and I have had to downsize. Belt-tightening is the order of the day."

"Dear me," Douglas murmured sympathetically. He could just imagine Barton's version of downsizing: from a £3 million house to a £1 million house. And they might have had to sell one of their three cars; probably the Land Rover, that was the least fuel-efficient. Gosh. Times certainly were tough.

"The thing is, Mr. Richardson, I'm afraid Mr. Shappey's been forced to tighten his belt as well."

Sudden unease filtered its way into Douglas' stomach. "Really? What a shame. I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Shappey."

Gordon had taken a paper clip from a stack of paperwork and was bending it back and forth, mangling it beyond redemption. "Christ's sake, Hollis, get on with it!"

"Yes, of course. Mr. Richardson," Barton said, "I'm afraid after this trip to Monaco, Mr. Shappey will no longer be needing your services."

Douglas blinked, and displaying the sound judgment that had governed a fairly considerable portion of his decision-making life, remained silent as he processed those words.

_Mr. Shappey will no longer be needing your services._

_All right,_ a little interior voice cautioned. _It's bad. Very bad indeed. You've been working for the man for fifteen years, and you're no spring chicken. Still, you're a superb pilot, a creature of marked intelligence, and a man of nearly inexhaustible resources. It's not the end of the world._

"Did you hear him, Richardson?" Gordon barked.

"Certainly," Douglas replied. "I'm sorry about it, though. It's most unexpected, and unpleasant, as you can probably guess." 

Gordon pursed his lips. "I'm the one who's having to _charter_ flights now, Richardson. It's a hell of a loss of face, but I suppose I couldn't expect you to know that."

"I suppose so." Douglas remained plank-faced. Gordon had always been rich; he'd inherited millions of pounds from his parents, who'd died in an automobile accident when he was twenty-two, their sole heir, and to give him credit, he'd quadrupled his inheritance in ten years on the Stock Exchange. It was likely that he'd always been a greedy little bastard, probably swindling his playmates out of sweets as a tot in the sandbox. He hadn't the first idea how ordinary citizens made their way in the world. So perhaps Douglas _couldn't_ be expected to understand the pain of Gordon's downfall, and there didn't seem to be anything to gain by arguing. The thing to do now was salvage as much as possible. "I hope I can expect a reference, Mr. Shappey."

"All right. You write it, though – I haven't got time."

 _Too busy entertaining clients and prostitutes._ He thought suddenly of the vulgar and brazen young men who'd been 'guests' on some flights, and felt sorry for Gordon's partner, a meek little fellow Gordon seemed to take pleasure in deriding. "Very well." Douglas stood and collected his hat. "Anytime you're ready, sir."

"Just a minute," Gordon snapped. "There's one more thing." He nudged Barton with his elbow. "Tell him."

"Some rather bad news, I'm afraid," Barton said.

"Oh?" _Worse than getting sacked?_

"Yes. Unfortunately, some financial setbacks have occurred, and Mr. Shappey has been forced to dissolve your pension."

A warning bell rang in the back of Douglas' head. He lifted an eyebrow, successfully endeavouring to conceal his growing trepidation. "Dissolve?"

"Yes. I'm very sorry, but he hadn't much choice. As I said, belt-tightening is the order of the day."

Douglas sat again. "Perhaps you can explain exactly what you mean by the word 'dissolve', because the term sounds a bit ominous to me." The bell rang steadily, a clamour he tried without success to banish.

"Simply put, circumstances have arisen that make it necessary for Mr. Shappey to come to that difficult decision. In the view of the present crisis and under enormous strain, _several_ companies, not just Mr. Shappey's, have been forced to reduce their cost burden to ensure long-term security." Barton cleared his throat and tapped his papers delicately, an unhappy expression on his basset-hound face. "Ordinarily, under the Pension Protection Act, your pension would be secure, but a few years ago, Mr. Shappey re-incorporated Shappey Enterprises Limited in Luxembourg, and as a citizen of the United Kingdom, you don't…unfortunately…meet the criteria for collection."

A chill wind blew in Douglas' heart. He heard Barton talking, but at first it seemed a pointless and incoherent babble, the wordless roar of a Monegasque crowd cheering a daring driver. Then the words started to take shape, and became absurd, farcical. His pension was gone. Impossible. "Forgive me, but I don't understand. I've been an employee for fifteen years."

"But you never paid a penny into that pension, Mr. Richardson." Barton drew a yellowed sheaf of papers from a folder. "Mr. Shappey paid the entirety of that sum, and therefore the money is his. Unfortunately."

Unfortunately. "That can't be legal." Douglas heard his own voice; it sounded as if it were emerging from the bottom of a well. 

Gordon snorted. "You signed an _agreement_ , Richardson. It's perfectly legal and binding."

The cold wind turned into an icepick, stabbing repeatedly until Douglas' heart felt like a thin slice of Swiss cheese. It was true, he hadn't paid so much as a pound into the pension – and he hadn't saved much of his own money, because the pension had been extraordinarily generous. Actually, he hadn't saved _any_ money, to be perfectly candid. He'd spent freely and often and quite happily, knowing his pension was secure, _was_ being the operative word in fifteen years of profligacy. "I want to see it."

"Here you are. Page five, paragraph seven, line four." Barton handed the yellowed sheaf over.

Douglas scanned it rapidly, scarcely able to make head or tail of the nearly incomprehensible legalese. He found the pertinent line in which he'd apparently signed away his future. He flipped to his signature – decidedly his – and flipped back to the offending paragraph. It did seem to indicate - _unfortunately_ \- that he was penniless. "You can't do this."

"It's done," Gordon said. "Sorry about it, but it was necessary."

He was ruined. Impecunious. Beggared. Broke. Destitute. Indigent. And Gordon Shappey sat there, a twisted, smug little smile on his face, his diamonds and his shiny suit gleaming in the light streaming into the dirty windows of the Portakabin. Douglas rose to his feet, feeling oddly heavy. "You won't get away with this. I hope you realise that."

Gordon shook his head. "For God's sake. Take it like a man, Richardson. Nations rise and fall every damned day, economies collapse. You'll manage somehow. I said I'd sign your bloody reference, didn't I?"

Straightening, Douglas removed his coat – four stripes on the sleeves and the Shappey crest worked in gold thread, another Gordon Shappey-engineered horror of vulgarity. "I'd prefer to sup with the devil rather than obtain a reference from you. Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Richardson! Get back here – you're flying me to Monte Carlo, or did it slip your mind? Richardson!"

Douglas ignored the shouting. He marched out with dignity, even grandeur. But when he reached his car and got inside, he slumped forward, forehead resting on the steering wheel.

_What the hell am I going to do now?_


	2. Chapter 2

*

 

Wrapping gifts was harder than it looked, particularly enormous gifts in huge, unwieldy boxes, but Martin was determined to get it exactly right, and besides, he was a believer in 'measure twice, cut once.' Somehow, though, he'd had to use an entire tube of paper and the thing still wasn't wrapped. If he bunged it up one more time he'd have to run to the shops to look for another tube and Gordon was due home any moment.

"All right. Last try." He nodded firmly and slid the ultra-sharp scissors up the grid pattern on the back of the paper, placed there specifically for the uncoordinated or unlucky. The scissors veered to the right, shearing the paper unevenly. "Oh, for goodness' sake –" Martin dropped the scissors, closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. This should have been a simple task, really.

Twenty minutes later, by dint of much pasting and strategic pattern-placement, he'd achieved some semblance of order. He affixed the pre-made bow onto the top of the parcel and regarded it a bit dubiously. It looked lopsided, but if he made one more mistake he'd end up chucking the whole thing and starting over, and there simply wasn't time.

The front door creaked open and banged shut. Martin hurried to the cupboard, rubbing his gluey hands on the seat of his jeans, and pulled out the makings of a gin and tonic. He threw cracked ice into a glass and was just pouring the gin when Gordon walked in, looking stormy. "Bad day?" Martin inquired sympathetically.

Gordon unbuttoned his coat and threw it over a chair. "It was fine. Why?"

"You look a bit upset." Justifiably so; Gordon's pilot, Douglas Richardson, had walked out without so much of a word of explanation on the day he'd been due to fly to Monte Carlo, and since Gordon had insisted on the economy of using only one pilot, he'd had a dreadful time trying to hire a new one – a bit odd, really, since unemployed pilots seemed to be thick on the ground lately, at least according to _Flyer_. When Martin had mentioned this, however, Gordon had nearly snapped his head off. He'd been able to get his guests to Monaco, though they'd had to delay two days and had almost missed the Grand Prix. He'd been out of sorts ever since.

"Bloody Carolyn – that horrifying gorgon – rang me up today and demanded that I – that we," he amended, "attend Arthur's bloody birthday party tonight. Christ's sake – he's twenty-eight, or twenty-nine, I can't remember, but you'd think he'd be a bit old for birthday parties."

"But I told you about the party weeks ago, Gordon." Martin pointed at the refrigerator, where the invitation stared them in the face. A few replies zoomed rapidly over the threshold of Martin's consciousness: Gordon should have remembered his son's birthday; knowing Arthur, he should have known that Arthur was always excited about his birthday; people were entitled to have parties no matter how old they were. Two years ago, he might have said all that. However, he now realised the wisdom of maintaining a prudent silence. Gordon already looked irritated. 

And evidently, he was. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Martin. "What?"

Martin forced a smile to drag his mouth upward and, with deceptive casualness, turned to pour tonic water into the glass of ice and gin. "You're so busy, of course it slipped your mind. I should have chivvied you a week ago."

"Why didn't you, for God's sake?" Gordon took the glass that Martin proffered.

"Sorry. Stupid of me." He indicated the gift on the kitchen table with a backward wave of his hand. "I just wrapped his gift. I can mark it from both of us if you like."

"Do that." Gordon sat heavily in a chair and sipped his drink. He didn't inquire what was beneath the wrapping. "We've got to be there at seven. Go and tart yourself up."

Martin stiffened at the disdainful, abrupt tone of Gordon's voice. For a moment – just a tiny, fleeting moment – he hated him, his peremptory commands, the anger he seemed to nurture and thrive upon, the temper that sometimes erupted, with Martin as a target. 

Not for the first time, he wondered just how he'd got in so deep.

 

*

 

He towelled off quickly and wriggled into fresh clothes, dark jeans and a soft cashmere pullover the colour of milky tea. He was trying to comb down the worst of his cowlicks when Gordon strolled into the room with a fresh drink, possibly his third, if the ruddiness of his face was any indicator of consumption. He seemed more relaxed, but not necessarily more happy. Martin trod softly. "Almost ready."

Gordon went to the closet and pulled open Martin's half – well, quarter was probably more accurate – and withdrew a navy-blue suit. "I'd rather you wore this. I've got friends coming to this ridiculous little soiree, and I'd prefer less mutton dressed as lamb."

Martin looked down at the polished surface of the dressing table and pressed his lips together. He glanced up and saw Gordon watching him in the mirror. "I'm only thirty-two," he said lightly. "Planning to trade me in for a younger model?"

Gordon moved closer, then smacked Martin hard on the backside. "Not yet. I'll wait 'til you turn thirty-five." He gave Martin a little push. "I'm joking, for God's sake, don't pull that long face on me. Come on, chickpea, get dressed."

"Carolyn said not to bother to dress."

"She would, though, wouldn't she? The cunt dresses like a landfill."

Martin hated to hear Gordon tear Carolyn down. She was a bit scary and decidedly snippy and sarcastic, but he was fond of her all the same. "Gordon –"

"Time's wasting, Martin."

Nodding, Martin took the suit from Gordon, avoiding his eyes, and laid it carefully on the bed. He stripped quickly and hurried into a crisp white shirt and the suit. The suit never looked quite right on him. Certainly it was handsome, well-cut, and expensive, but he always felt as if he were impersonating a banker when he had it on. Laboriously, he knotted the tie, a birthday gift from Gordon, and then tried a final pat-down of his hair.

Gordon stepped behind him, set his drink on the dressing table, and clasped Martin in his arms. "That's smashing, love." One hand slipped low and fondled roughly.

Martin laughed. "Time's wasting."

"I think we've got time for a quickie."

"You should have said so before I showered." Martin tried to wriggle out of Gordon's grasp. "Really, Gordon –" He managed to turn around, but Gordon wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in for a kiss. His teeth pressed against Martin's lower lip until Martin acquiesced and opened his mouth to keep from being bruised. "Gordon, come on," he mumbled, or tried to, since his mouth was being plundered by Gordon's tongue.

Still kissing Martin, Gordon opened a drawer of the dressing table and rummaged, pulling out the container of lubricant. "I want that sweet little arse."

"We'll be late." Martin tried to pull away, but Gordon held him close and rubbed his cock through his trousers, and it began to stand to attention. "Gordon –"

"Shut up and unbutton." Gordon was unbuttoning his own trousers.

"I really think we should –" A surprised little cry escaped him as Gordon darted forward and grasped his jaw. He stumbled backward and banged into the dressing table. Nowhere to go. 

Gordon squeezed Martin's face, hard, fingers digging into Martin's cheeks. "You _think_? You think _what_ , chickpea? Since when do I ask you to think?" His voice was deadly soft, and his eyes, though bloodshot, regarded Martin with what seemed affection and even amusement. 

Martin didn't dare grab at Gordon's wrist. "Gordon –"

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You're going to take your fucking trousers down, and then you're going to turn around and bend over. That doesn't require much thinking, pet." He let Martin's face go and took a step back.

Tears of pain dammed up in Martin's eyes, but he nodded, unfastened his trousers, and then turned around. He looked at himself in the mirror, saw the angry red marks on his face and leant over, supporting himself on his forearms and staring down at the dressing table as Gordon kicked his legs apart and yanked his trousers to his knees. He concentrated on the items littering the table's surface – a pair of gold cufflinks, a thin gold chain, a platinum collar pin, his iPod – all gifts from Gordon, each present a link in the chain that fettered him to the man thrusting two lubricant-slick fingers up his arse.

He squeezed his eyes shut as Gordon pushed himself inside so hard it shoved Martin forward, nearly upsetting the dressing table and its contents. He held on and gritted his teeth, wincing as his own cock twitched unwillingly, aroused despite the brutality of Gordon's thrusts. It would be over soon; all he had to do was wait it out and say nothing. Gordon never took long, but if he were interrupted, Martin would have to contend with more than hard fingertips grinding into his face. Gordon rooted and lunged, grunting; Martin kept his eyes closed and counted backward from one hundred. His face ached, and the ramming sensation hurt enough to force a few involuntary tears from his eyes. Gordon's hands gripped Martin's hips, holding him still, demanding compliance. 

Finally, finally, it was over. Gordon sagged against him, panting, and pulled out with a disgusting wet sound. Martin stayed still, listening to Gordon re-fasten his trousers and retrieve his drink. He heard the clink of ice against Waterford, and then felt Gordon's hands, gentle now, cleaning him with a pocket handkerchief, easing him up. He straightened slowly, his back and arse and face sore, and allowed Gordon to urge him round.

"Come on now." Gordon tossed the handkerchief in the laundry bin, zipped up Martin's trousers and tidied his shirt, then drew Martin into his arms. "Come on, don't pout. I don't understand you, chickpea." He kissed Martin's wet cheek and pushed damp curls from Martin's forehead. "You can't pretend you didn't like it. You're still half-hard, for Christ's sake."

Which was true. Martin held himself stiffly, unyielding as Gordon hugged him and murmured into his ear. _Get away_ , he wanted to say – to scream, in fact, to bellow and roar. _Get away, you heartless bastard._ Instead, he said, "Why did you –" His voice hitched. "Gordon, you can't – you can't –" He tried for a voice filled with anger and disdain, and failed utterly. And that was all. He couldn't get another word out. He'd blubber, and his half-hard cock, wilting now, had betrayed him. _Oh, God. I hate this. I hate this._

"I don't ask much of you, do I?" Gordon murmured. "Do I? I don't force you to go out to work, I don't make you cook or clean. I give you everything you could possibly want. A bit of respect, a little understanding when I've had a rough day, that's all I ask in return. Don't get dramatic on me." His voice dipped downward, still calm, but carrying a decided warning.

Martin nodded. "I don't suppose I have time for another shower." He felt dirty, achy, and oddly scorched, as if he'd stood in a wind and sun-blasted desert for hours. 

Gordon chuckled, happy now. "Hardly. We're late as it is. Let's go." He gave Martin's bum a pat, picked up his glass, and was out the door.

Slowly, Martin followed. If a friend – if he'd had any friends – had asked him why he didn't just leave, why he didn't tell Gordon that it was over, they were through, and good riddance – he didn't know what he would say. No-one was forcing him to stay, after all. But where would he go? He hadn't a pound to his name; he'd depleted his bank account. Buying Arthur's gift had wiped it out almost completely. He'd sold his van because Gordon had complained it was an eyesore and he wouldn't have it in the driveway. If he'd gone to his mother or to Simon or Caitlin for help, they would probably laugh at him, or treat him with scorn – and who was to say he didn't deserve it? He'd dug himself a deep hole and if he couldn't clamber out it was his own bloody fault. 

It was all cause and effect. Wasn't it?

 

*

 

Arthur's face, as he tore the clumsy wrapping from the package, lit up as spectacularly as a skyrocket. "Wow!" He beamed at his father, then at Martin. "That's brilliant!"

Martin couldn't help grinning back at Arthur. He'd seen the remote-control Spitfire in a hobby shop window and had known immediately that Arthur would love it. Suddenly, emptying his bank account seemed a very reasonable action. 

Beside him, Gordon muttered, "Damned ridiculous thing to get for a grown man." Then he plastered a big smile on his face. "I knew you'd like it, son."

As Arthur continued to exclaim over his gift, Martin felt Gordon expanding, his feathers becoming smoother and shinier as he basked in Arthur's joy, a singularly odd thing for him to do, as he generally seemed to regard Arthur with the same contempt he displayed for the rest of the human race. All eyes were on him, though, and he was collecting good-dad points, which Arthur bestowed upon him freely. There would be no gratitude for Martin's choice, only the usurpation of it.

Not even the slightest whiff of credit came Martin's way as Gordon propelled him through the crowded room, chatting to guests, nodding graciously at the compliments to his thoughtfulness and excellent display of parenthood, one hand proprietorially gripping Martin's arm above the elbow as if Martin were about to break loose and run for the hills. 

"Oh, Christ, no," Gordon said, as Carolyn steamrollered her way toward them. "I'm off for a drink." He let Martin go and disappeared into the crowd.

"Martin," Carolyn said. "Lovely of you and Gordon to show up." Pointed intonation shaded her voice.

"He was tied up at work, Carolyn," Martin apologised. "Thanks for inviting me."

"Certainly. I see Gordon still hasn't developed a backbone," Carolyn said. "Skulking in the corner with a drink in his hand and avoiding me and leaving you to do his dirty work." She sighed. "Well, never mind. I expect you'll come to your senses one day. What on earth happened to your face?"

Caught off guard, Martin blushed and stammered. "I, er, I slipped and fell in the shower. It's not as bad as it looks."

Carolyn's gaze narrowed, and deep vertical lines appeared between her brows. "Did you indeed," she said flatly. "I seem to recall falling in the shower once or twice when Gordon and I were married."

"Did you? Gosh, that's awful. I – I mean it's –" Helplessly he groped for a response. Surely she didn't mean what he thought she might have meant. Carolyn was intimidating in her strength; Gordon had intimated that she'd bullied him nearly into a premature grave. Confused, he retreated to an excuse. "I should probably get one of those floor mat things with the little sticky bits on the bottom."

"Yes. Or perhaps you should leave that no-good, selfish, miserable rodent posthaste."

"Martin!" 

Martin breathed a sigh of relief as Arthur descended upon them. "Hello, Arthur. Happy birthday." He offered Arthur his hand, but Arthur ignored the hand and swept Martin into an enthusiastic hug that squeezed the breath out of him. "How are you?" he wheezed.

"I'm great! Thanks a million for the Spitfire, Martin. Best birthday gift ever. Except for the car when I was twenty, that was nice. Mum gave me that. And the helicopter ride three years ago. And that book _Cars and Trucks and Things That Go_ when I was five. But your gift is fantastic!" Arthur flashed an infectious grin. "Why don't you come on over tomorrow and help me put it together?"

"I'd like that," Martin replied. "I'll check and see if it's all r –" He saw Carolyn tilt her head to one side in speculative disapproval. "That is, I'm sure it'll be fine. Gordon – your dad was thrilled that you liked it."

"Yeah, but you're the one who picked it out. Dad would never get me a present like that. He gets me things like ties and subscriptions to _Smart Investor_. Besides, you and I were talking about aeroplanes a couple of months ago, remember? Anyway, thanks, it's brilliant."

A little glow suffused Martin's entire being. "I – I'm really glad you like it, Arthur."

"Oh, I do. What happened to your face?"

Martin's hand flew up to his cheek. "I fell. Carolyn, would you point me toward the loo?" 

Carolyn lifted an eyebrow. "Down the hall, third door on the left."

He didn't need the loo, but it was the most convenient method of escape he could conceive. "Thanks." Martin pushed through the crowd, safe in his anonymity. Some people knew him, but only as an adjunct to Gordon. He doubted any of Gordon's friends even knew his name. If he walked out of the house and disappeared, nobody would miss him. Gordon might not even realise he was gone until the following day; he had a remarkable talent for ignoring Martin when he chose. 

He found the loo and went inside, flipping the switch and locking the door behind him. Confronted by a large, gilt-edged mirror, he stared at himself: his perpetually awry hair that no comb or product could tame, the expensive and faintly ludicrous blue suit, the Dunhill tie, the finger-shaped bruises on his face. Everything courtesy of Gordon.

It wasn't so bad. He might have fallen, after all, and received multiple bruises. Anyhow, it had only happened once.

_Oh, really?_

And besides, Gordon hadn't meant it; he was under terrible stress at work, and hadn't found a new pilot, and things were usually okay. He didn't lose his temper often. Things were just…stressful now, that was all.

_Stressful. Right._

He turned away from the mirror and his accusatory reflection.

 

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

 

"Ten years with Air England, fifteen years flying Gordon Shappey about. Consistency. I like that, Douglas. I like that _very_ much indeed." Andrew Warbury grinned and drummed a little syncopated tattoo on the desk with his fingers.

Douglas offered Andrew Warbury his most winning smile in return. Warbury was in his mid-forties, one of those terribly successful dot-com fellows who'd managed to stay afloat in an economic downturn, and handsome in a ruddy-faced, tousled, Barbour-Labrador-and-Hunter-Wellies-at-the-weekend-cottage sort of way. He also threw extra words and emphasis into his speech with distressing regularity: It's _really_ awfully nice to meet you. I've often got _crucifying_ early meetings in any given week. I like that _very_ much indeed. All the word-stressing was giving Douglas a _dreadfully_ punishing headache. "I'm not keen on flitting about from job to job. I much prefer steady, solid work. I suppose that makes me a bit old-fashioned."

Warbury dialled his smile even brighter, displaying a great many capped teeth. "Sometimes old-fashioned is _precisely_ the way to go. My dad always told me so. Incidentally, my other two pilots are brash, _mad_ young fellows, so I think that having an old lion like you about will keep them on their toes."

_Old lion?_ Douglas' smile stayed nailed in place. "I find that mixing energetic youth with seasoned experience makes for a rather vigorous brew." Douglas offered another smile. Warbury grinned inanely and so often Douglas felt obliged to reply in kind. His face was beginning to ache. Miserable little sod. Still, he wouldn't have to chat with him much; thank God for a door to the flight deck. 

"Doesn't it just!" Warbury laughed. "Of course, I don't need to tell you that discretion is a _must_ in my world. I'm always popping round to unusual places for business on short notice, and naturally I require that the fellows who fly my jet are willing, loyal, and…er, _discreet_. Can't have the competition stealing secrets!"

Translation: _I buy a great many drugs from shadowy underworld types in seedy locations, so you've got to keep your mouth shut about it._ Gordon, during his coke-fuelled years, had said almost exactly the same thing. Now Warbury's bright eyes and restless manner began to make sense. Well, as long as Douglas didn't get arrested, he didn't care where Warbury flew for his nose candy. " _Certainly_ ," Douglas replied warmly, doing a little word-stressing of his own. "I understand _completely._ "

Warbury displayed his teeth again. "Fantastic! I think we're on the same page here. Well, Douglas, I –" His mobile chirruped, and he picked it up and glanced at it. "Oh, Christ. My secretary. Sorry, _assistant_. Heaven forbid I call her my secretary. Look, I've got to speak to her for a moment – she only texts me in emergencies. Would you mind waiting here just a moment? Can I have one of the girls bring you some coffee, a mineral water perhaps?"

"Oh, I'm perfectly fine, thanks. No trouble at all. Take your time." 

"Terrific. I'll be back as _soon_ as I possibly can." Warbury dropped Douglas' CV on the leather top of his desk and strode out. 

Douglas leant back in his chair and regarded the paintings lining the walls with complacence. It was, as they said, in the bag, and Douglas felt entitled to relax a bit and congratulate himself on reaching into the great pie of unemployment and pulling out such a perfectly ripe plum as this position. As one of three pilots to Andrew J. Warbury, dot-com billionaire and erstwhile Sloane Ranger, he'd find himself flying to the most glamorous of locales, since Warbury, a tabloid darling according to the internet articles he'd scrutinised, played as hard as he worked: polo matches in Argentina, skiing in Gstaad, tennis in Melbourne, nightclubbing in Manhattan. And collected some truly intriguing art, as well; Douglas examined the paintings from his chair and recognised a Chagall, a Kandinsky, a Johns, and a Hockney, as well as some small, luscious little pieces by painters whose work he didn't recognise. Did Warbury have an art advisor, as Gordon had, or did he pick the stuff himself? Douglas suspected the former, but no matter. What mattered was that he was solvent again. Or would be, soon enough.

The door opened, and Warbury came back in. He sat at his desk and gave Douglas a brief, icy glance, then began playing with his mobile. "I'm afraid there's been a bit of a hitch."

Douglas frowned. "Sorry?"

"A _hitch_. I'm afraid I won't be able to engage you." Warbury kept his eyes fixed on his phone. "Sorry."

A sudden and searing heat travelled up and down Douglas' spine. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I think you probably do," Warbury replied coldly, and met Douglas' gaze for a second before dropping his eyes again. "I pride myself on my integrity, Mr. Richardson. If there's nothing else…." He thrust his chin in the direction of the door.

He didn't understand. Unless –

Ah.

Douglas got to his feet. "You had a word with Mr. Shappey. Is that it?"

"Yes. People do check references, you know. It isn't just a pleasant formality." Warbury's complexion was even more crimson than his ordinary country-weekend pink. "I can't hire a pilot who's unreliable."

"Is that what he said? That I'm unreliable?"

"Yes. And prone to occasional bouts with the bottle as well. Not _precisely_ attributes I want in a pilot, Mr. Richardson. And my company does business with Gordon. You _probably_ should have researched that before applying." His voice was clipped and curt, embarrassed; he'd all but offered Douglas the job then withdrawn it, and now he blamed Douglas for his discomfiture. "You can see yourself out."

Somehow Douglas felt the usual "thanks for the opportunity to chat" nonsense wasn't in order. "Very well. Shappey's quite the bully, isn't he? Pity that no-one stands up to him."

"Seems _you_ did. Didn't do you much good." Warbury scooped up Douglas' CV and held it out, his eyes still fixed on his mobile. "You can take this."

"Oh, no. Do keep it. Cut it in fourths and use the pieces as straws." _Integrity, my arse. You could probably stick a finger through the hole in your septum._

Warbury blinked in confusion.

Douglas suppressed a sigh as he walked out. It was pointless attempting to fight with an unarmed opponent. 

No, actually – that was wrong. Warbury had been armed. He'd neatly lopped off Douglas' head with a single piece of information.

Unreliable. And a drunk. Douglas hadn't touched alcohol in more than twenty years, but he'd made the utterly stupid, colossal error of confiding a few snippets of his past to his former employer, a man who knew less about integrity than even Warbury the dot-com cokehead.

Douglas had been a bit prideful, true. That didn't make Gordon any less of a horse's arse. He'd always been an angry, vindictive man – he'd boasted of annihilating his enemies to Douglas any number of times, and Douglas had always nodded and had a witty accolade to hand. Douglas had never expected Gordon's anger to turn his way, though.

_It can't last. Gordon's rage always finds a new target._

Douglas thumbed his car remote and gave one rueful glance backward at Warbury's tall, narrow home-cum-office. Such a plum.

_It would have been nice. But never mind. Other fish in the sea._

He hoped, at least.

 

*

 

"Yes. Yes, I see. Well, thank you all the same. Good afternoon."

Five weeks after his unceremonious departure from employment, Douglas realised that not only had he been sacked, was rapidly running out of walking-around money (he'd passed on three intriguing films to save cash), obliged to shop for groceries carefully (not horrible yet; Douglas prided himself on making fantastic _paupiettes de porc_ out of the sorriest sow's ear) and had some absolutely horrifying bills coming due (the mortgage, council tax, payment on the Lexus), it was now distressingly clear that Gordon, no doubt seething at the blow to his ego, had literally closed every door in town to him. 

He'd tried his fellow sky gods first, but the two leads he'd found (Two! Ten years ago, he'd had headhunters _begging_ him to join this or that private firm) had proved fruitless. There had been twelve positions of steadily decreasing desirability listed on _Aviation Job Search_ and _Pilot Jobs Network_ , and he'd applied for all of them. Three times he'd made it as far as an interview, and once had actually been told he'd had the job, but a phone call had come two days later rescinding the offer. Since then, his mobile had been ominously silent, his email inbox empty, his hopes dwindling.

Ordinarily he'd have chalked such a thought up to incipient paranoia – times _were_ tough, he wasn't, he admitted to himself, a spring chicken any longer, and the economy was one carelessly placed domino from utter collapse – but the two rejection letters he'd received had mentioned Gordon's negative reference, and the phone call had implied it. It beggared belief that the range of Gordon's influence extended so far, but apparently, there wasn't a business in Fitton or the greater London area that didn't involve him in some way.

Douglas had rarely experienced the sensation of impotent anger, but he was exploring it thoroughly now. His qualifications were nearly impeccable, his talents unsurpassed even if he wasn't twenty-five any longer, and he was close to losing everything. He couldn't move to another country; his shared custody agreement with Annabel wouldn't allow for Sophie to stay with him. Oh, God, child maintenance and spousal support! That was due soon as well. Sophie would be eighteen in a year, not long, but how on earth could he meet his obligations without a job?

He might have done, he reflected, if Gordon Shappey hadn't taken away his pension. He'd been a complete idiot not to have seen that tricky clause buried in the boilerplate. 

Revulsion, humiliation, and hatred set Douglas' stomach roiling. He'd been played for a fool. Gordon Shappey probably hadn't had the first notion of creating a pension for him. Disgusting as that was, Douglas might have accepted it, in time. But Gordon hadn't been content with stripping him of his future – he'd set out to strip Douglas of a livelihood altogether.

He'd sort it out somehow. He was endlessly resourceful.

Sighing, he slumped into a kitchen chair and opened the newspaper, paging through it restlessly, conscious that the only items he read assiduously nowadays were the job adverts. Global news (son of prominent Brazilian businessman abducted, family desperate), local news (taxes to be raised again), finance (never good news), editorial (David Cameron is a nincompoop – no, David Cameron is a genius), social –

A familiar face in a photograph in the social column caught his eye. Two familiar faces, one dour, one smiling.

_Gordon Shappey and his partner Martin Crieff enjoy a Pimm's Cup and nibblies at Epsom Downs._

Pimm's Cup and nibblies at Epsom Downs. Douglas' stomach clenched more tightly as he stared at the photo. Gordon was still living the high life. So much for belt-tightening. He scrutinised Gordon's scowl, the tight grip on the arm of his cheerfully grinning partner. Bloody tight-fisted bastard. And the boyfriend – no, civil partner, Douglas remembered; he'd flown them to Majorca where they'd taken formal vows – the civil partner, Martin, was smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world. Well, why should he? He didn't work, Douglas knew, and he trotted around wearing expensive clothes and a watch that looked as if it cost the earth. 

_Must be lovely to be a kept man._

The day grew dark as Douglas stared at the photograph of the author of his downfall and the grinning trophy husband at his side. Venom settled in Douglas' heart, fertile soil for the seed that was planted as Douglas slowly, thoughtfully turned back to the front page.

_Covarrubias Scion Abducted; Family Pleads For Safe Return._

Douglas set the paper down and gazed out at his garden, pretty and fragrant in the dusk.

His conscience, an irritating cricket, piped up. _Mad idea. Not to mention illegal. You don't hate Gordon that much. Abandon it now._

He _did_ hate Gordon, though. Gordon had ruined him, with malice and gleeful deliberation.

Once more, he paged through the newspaper until he came to the photograph in the social column. Gordon's hand clutched at Martin's arm. Tight. Possessive. The love of Gordon's life.

How much, Douglas wondered, was Martin worth to Gordon?

 

*

 

The postal carrier, a stern woman with the manners of a Victorian governess, gave Douglas a small, pitying smile as she proffered his mail. "Hard to believe these times, Mr. Richardson. Difficult for all of us. Still, we're all in it together. Easier to tighten one's belt when everyone else is doing it as well."

Douglas resisted the urge to snatch the mail from the woman's hand and smack her with a rolled-up catalogue. Instead, he wiped his mucky hands on his jeans and took the mail. "That's certainly true." He flipped through the envelopes with deceptive idleness.

Urgent Notice. Past Due. Please Open Immediately. 

"Planting flowers?"

"No, just burying a body." Douglas smiled pleasantly at the sudden expression of horror on the woman's face.

"If that was intended to amuse, Mr. Richardson, I must say it fell somewhat short of the mark."

Douglas considered an acid retort about having room for one more corpse in the hole. "Sorry, that _was_ a bit much. I'm terribly sorry, sometimes my sense of humour is a bit dark. In fact, I'm planting vegetables. Tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines."

The governess thawed slightly. "Isn't that lovely? It's a bit late for planting though, you know."

"Yes, I know. Still, hope springs eternal."

"Quite right. Well, I'll leave you to it." 

"Thank you." Douglas waved cheerfully and went back into the house, dumping the post on the hall table. He trudged into the kitchen and paused at the basement door.

Built in 1929, Douglas' house was equipped with a small cellar, originally intended for wine storage by an optimistic and upwardly mobile homeowner. His dreams had perished in the Great Slump, unfortunately, and the damp cellar had never held so much as a single bottle of plonk. It served now as a repository for junk and the detritus of Douglas' first two marriages, neither of his wives having harboured any inclination to haul furniture with them upon departure. There was probably a lesson in that somewhere.

He went down the creaking stairs and gazed gloomily at the setup he'd been constructing. There was a bed, a chair, a small chest of drawers that could double as a table, and a lamp that gave off inadequate light. There was also a quantity of rope, two rolls of gaffer tape, a few clean cotton tea towels, a cotton drawstring sack that had once contained one of Annabel's expensive handbags, a face flannel, and some bath towels (not the good ones). He didn't know what else was required, but the items he'd gathered seemed to be enough for the moment. He'd never planned a kidnapping before.

Oh, Christ. It looked so creepy. Inhuman almost, like a set from _Silence of the Lambs_ or some such horror picture.

_Don't be ridiculous_ , replied the coldly pragmatic and faintly desperate voice that had supplanted his conscience. _It's necessary. Were you planning to install him in the guest room?_

Tonight. It had to be tonight. In a week, his car would be repossessed if he didn't make a payment, and he needed transportation. He couldn't falter or prevaricate now. It was now or never.

 

*

 

Sweat beaded Douglas' forehead and formed moist patches under his arms as he sat parked in a dingy alleyway, waiting with increasing agitation.

He'd staked out ( _stalked_ was probably a better term, but no point in bandying semantics) Gordon's house for a few weeks, grateful that his Lexus was luxurious enough to look commonplace in Gordon's section of town. He'd watched Martin Crieff's habits as best he could, trying to determine if Martin had a routine outside the house. Happily, he did – the young man took walks in the evening, always alone. Sometimes he went to the shops and purchased wine, strolling back at a snail's pace. He rarely smiled, the way he had in the society-news photograph anyhow. Trouble in Paradise, perhaps, which might make Gordon all the more appreciative once he realised Martin was in danger.

The last of his conscience had been jettisoned, and now Douglas was simply nervous. What if it didn't go off the way he'd planned? Martin was slight, and Douglas was strong, but still…no, it would work. It had to. And if Mr. Crieff wound up a bit bruised in the process, then that was his own fault.

There! There he was, hands in the pockets of his light jacket, head down. His turnaround point was just up the street by the off-licence. Douglas got out of the car, moved to the mouth of the alley, and watched Martin disappear into the shop. He re-emerged with a paper parcel in one hand and started back down the street.

_This is it. No turning back now._ Douglas wiped the sweat from his face and pulled on a knitted balaclava, yanking it down to conceal his face. Though there wasn't a street lamp nearby, he kept to the shadows nevertheless and waited for the sound of Martin's approaching footsteps.

_There he is. Go. Go!_ Douglas took a step back and coughed. "Excuse me. Sorry, have you got a mobile phone? Mine's dead and so's my bloody car." 

Martin stopped. "Sorry, your car? I didn't –" He moved close to the mouth of the alleyway. "Did you say –"

Douglas sprang forward and grabbed Martin's wrist, then yanked him into the shadow. Martin let out a startled cry and dropped the parcel. Glass shattered and red wine splashed onto the pavement. Douglas held his jackknife to Martin's throat. "Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth," he growled, roughening and deepening his voice so Martin wouldn't recognise it, unlikely as that probably was. "I'll slit your throat from ear to ear."

Martin emitted a tiny squeaking noise, more suited to a small rodent than a grown man. "I – I don't have any money. Well, s-seven quid, but that's all. Please don't kill me. You can have it. And my phone, whatever you want. Please…please." 

The young man's voice trembled, and Douglas felt sorry for him for a moment. But then his resolve hardened. He shoved Martin up against the car, slipped the knife into his pocket, and felt in his other pocket for the gaffer tape. "Cooperate and I won't kill you. If you make a sound, you're dead." He found the tape and ripped off a long piece.

"What are you doing? Please, just take the money."

"Shut up." Douglas seized Martin's arms and pulled them behind his back, crossing his wrists.

"What are you – stop, stop!" Amazingly, Martin began to struggle, kicking out at Douglas. He lunged backward, and the top of his head connected with Douglas' nose. Hard.

"Ow!" Douglas reached out and caught the back of Martin's jacket, dragging him backward. "You little –"

"Help me! Help me, somebody!" Martin, his hands awkwardly taped together, squirmed as Douglas caught him round the waist and pulled him toward the car. "Hellllp!"

"Oh, for God's sake, shut up!" Douglas couldn't reach into his pocket for more tape and hold the thrashing young man in his arms at the same time. He covered Martin's mouth with one hand and yelped as he felt teeth closing onto his flesh. Why didn't they just bang some bin lids together and shoot off a few cannonballs while they were at it? They'd probably roused half of Fitton already. And those determined teeth were starting to draw blood. Grimly keeping his hand over Martin's mouth, Douglas moved in a tight circle, trying to knock the young man off his feet and keep hold of him at the same time. Martin stumbled as Douglas whirled them round and round, a two-man human cyclone, and suddenly, abruptly, and inexplicably, slumped to the ground in an untidy heap.

Douglas stood still for a few seconds. Was he bluffing? He pulled the knife again, darting a worried glance toward the mouth of the alleyway. Astounding that no-one had heard them. He held the point of the knife against Martin's throat, but the young man didn't move. He'd passed out. Bizarre.

Still, it was an unexpected bit of luck. Douglas opened the boot of the Lexus, then dragged Martin's unresisting body to it and dumped it inside. Carefully, he re-taped Martin's hands, bound his ankles together, put two pieces of tape over his mouth, and pulled the cotton drawstring sack over his head. He gazed at him for a moment, then slammed the boot closed and pulled off the balaclava. He jumped into the car and ruefully examined his hand. Tooth marks and a bit of broken skin. Gingerly, he touched his nose – not broken, at least – and then started the car.

He'd done it. For better or worse.

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

*

 

Martin awoke in darkness with an aching head. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, but it was still dark. He was curled up on his side, but the bed beneath him felt hard and scratchy. Something smelled odd, chemical. And more bewildering was a persistent impression of movement and a strange rushing noise. 

_What on earth?_

He tried to lift his hand to his eyes and realised that he couldn't. He couldn't move either hand. Confused, he tried again and felt a sticky biting sensation at his wrists. He felt a similar constriction round his ankles, and –

_Oh my God._

That man, the man in the alley! He'd pinned Martin's wrists, he'd – Martin felt something light covering his face and the same stickiness over his mouth. The man in the balaclava had _kidnapped_ him. He'd tied Martin up and thrown him in the boot of the car he'd said was knackered, and the movement that Martin felt was the car, the smell was wax and rubber and petrol, and he was being transported – where?

_God, no, no, no—_

Martin tried to scream, but the howl he let out was muffled by both gaffer tape, whatever was resting over his face, and industrial carpeting. He rolled over, banging his knees against metal, and kicked frantically with both feet against the boot lid, yelling as loudly as he could, but nothing happened – the car kept moving, humming smoothly and at speed, and the driver didn't react at all. There had been only one man, hadn't there? He couldn't remember seeing anyone else. Oh God, where were they going? More importantly, what were they going to do to him?

The closed-up, chemical, stuffy smell of the boot filtered through the cloth over his face, and he sucked air in through his nostrils. Dizziness was making him hyperventilate, and he was going to suffocate if he didn't get more air. _I don't want to die, not like this. Oh God, please, please get me out of here!_

Another smothered wail escaped him. He heard the panic in his own voice, felt the rapid heaving of his chest and saw bright sparkles in the void opening before him. _Calm down. Calm down!_

Little by little, he forced himself to stop thrashing, to breathe regularly and steadily through his nose. His periods of blackout ordinarily lasted only a moment or two, so he couldn't have been trapped for very long. If this was going to be a long journey, he had to accustom himself to discomfort. _You're not going to suffocate. There's some ventilation in the boot, otherwise you'd be dead already. Probably._ He held perfectly still, and felt a faint tickle of moving air at the base of his throat, pushing against the collar of his shirt. _There. There. Relax. You're not going to die. Not yet, anyhow._

Martin moaned softly. He hadn't an enemy in the world…but Gordon was rich, and powerful. And Gordon hadn't been totally unaware of the inherent danger in being a rich and powerful man. He'd actually taken one of those kidnap-avoidance/hostage-survival training things a year ago. 

_\---Gordon, hadn't I better go with you?_

_\---What on earth for?_ Gordon had frowned at him over the rim of his glass.

_\---Well…in case someone tries to…I don't know._

_\---Kidnap you? Martin, for God's sake. Who'd want to kidnap you?_

Martin had turned away to hide the hurt. _\---I don't know. Someone who thought I was worth something to you._

_\---Martin._ Gordon had risen from his chair and walked to Martin and clasped him close. _\---Pet, this thing's for chaps like me. It's going to be nothing but stuffy bankers and CEOs and CFOs and COOs and Christ knows what else. It's not for…look here, I'll take notes and teach you everything I learn. That way it'll be two seminars for the price of one. God knows it's exorbitant as it is. Hm? Hm? Come on, give me a smile. That's it._

After the course, which had lasted five days, Gordon had come home, seething. _\---Thirty-five hundred pounds for a lot of rubbish._

_\---You must have learnt something useful, Gordon._

Gordon had glared. _\---Useful? Oh, right. Want to know the vast scope of knowledge that thirty-five hundred pounds bought me? 'Resist, but if you do get kidnapped, cooperate.' There. That's the sum total of the wisdom I gleaned. Fuck's sake._

_\---Oh dear. That is a bit steep, but it does seem like sensible advice. I'm sorry you had to be away all that time just for that. I've missed you._

_\---Mm. Why don't you come upstairs with me and show me how much you've missed me?_

So he hadn't learnt anything practical except for resist (and he had, though any thought of the seminar had been light-years from his thoughts – he'd simply panicked, that was all) and cooperate – and given that he was tied up in the boot of a car heading toward God only knew where, that seemed the only reasonable option at the moment. He probably should have tried to take in the make and model of the car, his abductor's build and voice, things like that, but Martin couldn't recall anything except a terrifying figure in a balaclava and his own fright and panic. 

He'd dropped the bottle of wine he'd been carrying, he remembered suddenly. He didn't know what earthly good it would do, but the police were awfully good at forensics and whatnot – nowadays all it took to solve a crime was a tire print and a fingernail paring, if you believed the television programmes. And he hadn't been far from the off-licence when he'd been attacked, and no doubt the shopkeeper would remember him.

_So what? The kidnapper's probably going to demand a ransom. It's not as if Gordon's not going to know what's happened._

Martin's nose itched, and tears pooled in his eyes. Not everybody survived kidnapping. A few weeks ago the papers had covered the abduction of the son of a rich Brazilian family; the ransom had been paid, but the young man had been discovered in a ditch, his throat cut. Martin had no reason to believe his kidnapper wouldn't be just as ruthless, no matter how docilely he behaved.

He screwed his eyes shut, and the tears escaped, trickling down his temples and disappearing into his sweat-soaked hair. He sniffled, afraid his nose would clog up and hamper his breathing. If this was a kidnap for ransom, the best Martin could possibly hope for was that Gordon would either pay up quickly, or get the police involved so they could rescue him. Until then, he'd be quiet and obedient and polite, the most accommodating victim in the history of abduction.

The car slowed, then stopped. Martin felt the weight of the vehicle shift, heard a pop, and let out a shivering breath as a breeze filtered into the car from the partially opened boot. He thought about trying to struggle out, but he wouldn't get anywhere with his ankles taped together. Trembling, he waited as he heard the slam of a door and the scrape of footsteps. Were they boots, or leather-soled shoes, or – 

"Listen to me." The voice was a soft growl. There was a creaking as the man lifted the lid of the boot, and Martin whimpered as a hand grasped a handful of his jacket and dragged him upward. "I'm going to take you inside, and if you make so much as a single noise I'm going to cut your thumb off. Nod your head if you understand."

Martin couldn't still his trembling, but he nodded vigorously. The loss of his thumb would mean the end of his dreams, however deferred. _Cooperate._ He felt two strong arms encircling him, dragging him up and out of the boot. He swayed on feet that were numb and still taped together, and one arm caught him round the waist and held him still. The boot lid banged down, and he flinched and let out a small, startled cry.

"Shut up, I said." Something sharp and cold pressed against the hollow of Martin's throat. "I'm going to pick you up and carry you inside. If you wriggle, if you make me lose my balance – your thumb. Right?"

Martin gave another hearty nod, afraid a simple inclination of his head wouldn't be noticed under the hood or whatever covered him. He felt something press against his belly, then an arm encircled his thighs and he gasped as he was hoisted into the air, his head thumping against a broad back.

"Shh." The man carried Martin over what felt like cobble, from the unevenness, and then onto a patch of grass. Martin fought to stay conscious as his inner ear dysfunction threatened to send him into oblivion again. He heard the click of a key in a lock, and then a door swung open and the man went into the building.

Immediately Martin caught the scent of cooking. Delicious-smelling cooking, like roasted chicken with lemons and herbs, reminding him he'd only had beans on toast for tea because it was Jay's night off and Gordon had eaten the rest of the egg-and-bacon pie she'd made. His stomach growled noisily, and he thought he heard a soft snort of laughter from the kidnapper.

"We're going down a staircase. If you thrash about, I'll drop you and let you fall and break your neck."

Martin held perfectly still as the man descended a creaking flight of stairs, his arm firmly wrapped round Martin's thighs. He grunted as the man set him down, and gasped in fright when the man abruptly pushed him onto a hard chair. He held still as he felt the man trussing him to the chair with several lengths of rope.

The kidnapper straightened with a grunt and poked Martin in the shoulder. "I hope you don't need the loo, because you're going to be in this chair for a while."

He didn't. Thank God. Martin shook his head. He felt the man rifling through his pockets. "Your mobile didn't fall out – ah." He pulled the hood from Martin's head. "Welcome to what I'm sure we both hope are temporary accommodations."

Something tickled at the back of Martin's mind, but it dissolved as he blinked, trying to take in his prison. The only light was a white-ruffled lamp sitting on a night table, also white and painted with flowers. Next to it was an iron single bed, covered with a brightly printed quilt – pink, with smiling, winged, doll-like figures and the words "Sky Dancers" emblazoned across it in a curly script. The bed itself was enamelled white, with artificial flowers twined round some of the bars. Beyond that seemed to be cartons of books and what looked like toys, and furniture pushed haphazardly against the walls. It was difficult to make anything out clearly – the fluffy lamp gave off poor light. It was damp and smelled a bit musty – a basement, he realised. They'd gone from ground level downwards, so it had to be a basement.

_Excellent deduction, Inspector Crieff. Which leads you to conclude what, exactly? That you are in a basement. Helpful._

Well, that wasn't _all_ …the kidnapper had told him to stay quiet, which meant he was somewhere that he _might_ be heard if he were to fuss loudly enough. And…the furniture and bedding was clearly feminine, so that meant….

_What? When you apply that rusting grey matter to the problem, you realise that you're probably in a housing estate and this lunatic who's kidnapped you has girls' furnishings. Maybe they belonged to the last victim he murdered._

That made absolutely no sense.

"Now you listen to me." The kidnapper's raspy voice behind him jolted Martin back to reality. "You're going to call your sweetheart, and you're going to read what I tell you to read. If you scream when I take that tape off, you lose a thumb. You keep screaming when I'm forced to silence you, or you bite me again, you lose both thumbs. Understand me?"

Martin nodded, and the kidnapper stepped in front of him, holding Martin's mobile. Still wearing the balaclava and black clothing, he looked incredibly scary and ruthless. He reached down and ripped the tape from Martin's mouth.

"Aagh!" Pain seared his lips, chin, and cheeks. He bit his lower lip to quiet himself and felt a raw stab of discomfort. The tape had torn his skin raw. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Good Lord." The kidnapper examined the sticky side of the tape. "I don't think you'll need to shave for a few days." He shook his head.

Martin frowned. There…wasn't there something familiar about the man's voice? He couldn't place it, and asking him if they were acquainted probably wasn't one of the world's most brilliant ideas, so he kept his mouth shut about it. "Gordon's number is in my contact list."

"I know –" The kidnapper looked at him oddly for a moment. Martin only saw a brief flash of dark eyes, but his own eyes, pale as they were, would probably look dark in this dim light. "Yes. Right." He thumbed through Martin's phone and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it. "Right. Once he answers the phone, you're going to tell him to listen carefully, that you've been kidnapped and that you've been instructed to read this list of demands." The kidnapper set the unfolded sheet of paper on Martin's lap. "You will not deviate from the list. If you deviate from the list, you lose both thumbs and the index finger of your choice. Got it, pretty boy?"

Martin swallowed and nodded. "It's, um, it's a bit hard to read." His lips stung, and he winced. "The – the light, it's a bit dim."

The kidnapper sighed. "Right." He set the mobile in Martin's lap and dragged the chair closer to the table. "The cord doesn't stretch any further."

"That's much better."

"Good." The kidnapper picked up the phone. "Remember – you tell him to listen, tell him you've been kidnapped, and then read the instructions. I'm setting it to speaker-phone."

Martin nodded. The kidnapper plugged in the number and held the mobile up. The phone rang once, twice, three times. _Please, please, pick up, Gordon._ Sometimes Gordon ignored Martin's calls.

The phone clicked, and Martin's body all but wilted in relief. "Where the fuck are you? Have you any idea what time it is?"

"I – no, I –"

"Get your arse home. _Now._ " The phone clicked, and Martin heard dead air. He licked his lips and flinched from the pain.

The kidnapper prodded his shoulder, apparently not hearing the click. "Get on with it!"

Martin felt tears rising again and pressed his lips together. The pain cleared his head a bit. He slowly moved his head away from the phone and looked up at the terrifying anonymity of his captor. "He…er…I'm afraid he hung up on me."

"What?" The kidnapper stared at the phone's readout. 

"Yes. Um, he's a bit impatient, and I'd been gone awhile –"

"Oh, for Christ's sweet sake." The kidnapper plugged in the numbers again. "You get his attention. Cry or something." He held the phone close to Martin's mouth.

This time the phone was picked up on the second ring. "I'm not going to fucking tell you again!" 

_Click._

Martin felt tears forming again, without the accompaniment of his captor's prodding. Timidly, he lifted his eyes.

The man looked at the phone. "You're joking."

Martin shook his head. The tears blurred his vision, then slid down his cheeks. He sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"What are _you_ sorry about? I can't _believe –_ " The kidnapper threw up his hands and thumped to the bed. He examined Martin for a moment, and Martin slid his gaze away and studied the note on his lap, written in heavy but exceptionally neat block printing. "Right," the man said. "We're just going to send him a little message, and then I think _he'll_ call _you_." He got up and took a roll of gaffer tape from a tall chest of drawers, and strode back to Martin. He leaned close, then looked down at the tape. "That's going to take more skin off." He sighed heavily and went back to the chest, rummaging through it, and came back with two tea towels. Sitting on the bed, he knotted them together and held them up speculatively. "That'll have to do. You've been here five bloody minutes and you're already more trouble than you're worth."

"Well, I didn't ask to be kidnapped!" As soon as the words were out of Martin's mouth, he wanted to clap his hand over his lips, and would have done if he hadn't been tied up.

The kidnapper stared at him and then rose to his feet slowly. He moved toward Martin one menacing step at a time. "What?"

"N-nothing. Please, I'm sorry."

"You'd bloody _better_ be sorry." The man stepped behind him and pushed the knot into Martin's mouth, then tied the ends together at the back of his neck. The knot pressed Martin's tongue down and the tea towels cut into the corners of his mouth, but he didn't dare protest. He watched the man move round the chair and examine the phone again. 

The kidnapper grunted, then held the mobile up. "Bring your chin up a bit. There. Try to look frightened."

That was no problem, Martin thought, and felt another tear roll down his cheek as the camera flashed.

 

*

 

Gordon stomped angrily to the kitchen and helped himself to a generous serving of the curry chicken and basmati rice that Jay had readied the night before. He left the dish out instead of replacing it in the warming oven – Martin could reheat his in the micro, or eat it cold, he didn't bloody care. He got a Chatsworth Gold from the fridge and went back to his chair, half-watching Hugh Jackman run through Patrick Stewart's fancy house like a chicken without a head as he ate and sorted through some papers. He scarcely tasted his food, and felt it hardening in his chest as he read page after page of bad news.

He'd never been one to take financial advice from anyone, especially the thick-headed doomsayers he worked with, but as the pile of papers in front of him thickened, he thought for a fleeting second that he probably should have listened to them now and again. He'd invested and speculated for so many years with such enormous success it didn't seem possible that everything might come to a crashing halt. Margin payments were due, and they were gigantic, beyond reason, and he didn't have the cash on hand. He could sell off part of the art collection and the house in Norfolk – Christ, no! A few more manoeuvres and everything would be golden again.

His phone chirruped again – message from Martin. Well, Martin could whistle for all Gordon cared. Maybe it was time to insist that he work again, though not at that bloody removals job. Maybe at a men's shop instead, something nice, a tailor's or a tiemaker's. Then Martin could take over the household expenses – God knew he'd been sponging long enough. Certainly Gordon wasn't going to throw a single penny more away on Martin's half-baked attempts to become a pilot. Martin had failed his CPL three times, and Gordon had put his foot down. Six hundred pounds just for the test, plus plane hire, plus landing fees, plus Christ knew what else – it had been an indulgence the first two times, and since the third time had been anything but a charm, that was it. Fucking waste of money.

It still left his immediate problem unsolved, however. He needed nearly two million pounds by Thursday, and unless he could provide Shappey Ltd.'s creditors with some collateral, he was sunk.

The phone chirruped once more. Another fucking message. Gordon snatched up the phone, ready to fling it across the room, and his eye fell on the readout.

_Photo Message (1)_

Jesus _Christ_ \- of all times for Martin to send him a dirty picture. And odd – Martin never did it unless Gordon insisted. Strange. His mood improved slightly, though, and he clicked on the message. _What the fuck is all this, then?_

The picture was a bit hazy, taken in low light. Gordon put his glasses on and squinted at it. _What the –_

Martin was sitting on a chair – no, _tied_ to a chair. There was a gag in his mouth, and he looked wide-eyed into the camera.

Sex snap? But Martin was _dressed_. He couldn't have been….

Ridiculous. Gordon hit Martin's speed-dial and waited as the phone rang. It couldn't be what it appeared to be.

A voice answered. "Yeah?"

"Right, Martin, what the fuck –" Gordon stopped. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Nice of you to call back."

"I said, who the fuck is this? Where's Martin?"

"Did you get my little message?"

A chill settled in Gordon's stomach. "Yeah. I got it."

"Good. Now I want you to listen carefully. I'm going to put your boyfriend on the phone."

Gordon waited, and heard a low murmur. Then another voice, tremulous and tearful. "Gordon?"

"Martin, this had better not be a god-damned joke."

"No, it-it's no joke. I've, um, I've been kidnapped. He wants me to read something to you."

Gordon paused. "So read it."

Martin sniffled. God, Gordon hated when he did that. Sounded like a five-year-old. "'You are to bring one million pounds in small, unmarked, and non-sequential notes to Warren Street Station on Tuesday at 5:30 pm. You will place the cash in a doubled Sainsbury's bag and wait at the northern line northbound platform. The money will be taken from you. You will proceed to Euston Station, and Martin will be released to you there. If –'" Martin sniffled again. "'If you fail to comply with these instructions, he will be killed. If you involve the police or private detectives, he will be killed. If you endeavour to apprehend the person who takes the money, he will be killed. Do you understand?'" 

Martin finished speaking, but Gordon could hear him trying to suppress sobs. He was gulping and making funny noises. Gordon himself felt eerily calm.

"He – he wants to know if you understand the instructions, Gordon," Martin continued shakily. "He wants you to repeat them."

"A million by Tuesday. Northern line, northbound platform, Warren Street. Sainsbury's bag." Gordon repeated the instructions through lips that felt a trifle numb.

A mutter sounded over the phone. "He wants to know if you understand that any deviation from those instructions could, um, could –"

" _Will_ ," the growling voice said faintly.

"Um, _will_ result in my immediate – what?" There was a pause. "Im – immediate and painful death."

"I see."

"I suppose I'll see you on Tuesday, then. Gor—" The connection was cut, and Gordon was left alone with the mobile flashing the length of the call.

Gordon chewed the side of his tongue thoughtfully, his habit whilst deep in thought. He took a slow swallow of beer, and a now-lukewarm bite of chicken curry.

He sat thinking for a very long time.

 

*

 

The kidnapper stared down at Martin. "You had better pray that he follows my demands to the letter."

"I'm sure he will." Martin stared at his knees. There seemed to be nothing else to say. Gordon had been shocked nearly into silence – would he indeed remember everything? "Maybe you should text him those instructions. Just in case."

"I'm quite sure his memory is up to the task," the kidnapper replied curtly. He switched off the phone and pocketed it. "Do you need the loo before I leave for the night?"

Martin blushed. "Um…yes, please."

Going to the loo involved a long and tedious process of untying and untaping, except for his hands, and the replacement of the hood over his head. The kidnapper guided him up the stairs, the knife digging into Martin's side, and down a short corridor to the loo. Through the woven sack, Martin saw a light click on, and a hard hand pushed him forward until his shins hit something hard.

"Right. There it is. You leave the hood on, and sit down. I don't want you pissing all over my floor."

With hands that trembled, Martin unfastened his trousers and sat. When he was done, he stood and re-fastened, and heard the toilet flush. The brutal hands pushed him forward and grasped his wrist, forcing his fingers against something smooth. 

"There's the soap." There was a squeak, then the sound of running water. "Wash up."

Obediently, Martin washed his hands and then let his captor guide him back down the corridor and carefully down the stairs. The sack was pulled off his head, and the kidnapper pointed to the bed with the knife, a wicked-looking jackknife. "Lie down."

_Cooperate. This will all be over in a few days if you don't do anything phenomenally stupid._ Martin lay on the single bed, and the kidnapper grasped his right hand, yanking it toward the furthest iron bar. He bound Martin's wrist to the bar quickly and efficiently, and moved round the bed to the opposite side, where he similarly bound Martin's left wrist. When he leant close, Martin caught the mingled scents of sweat and some nice cologne.

"Look."

Martin couldn't quite meet the kidnapper's eyes – it was too disconcerting, with the balaclava covering everything else – so he stared at the man's forehead. The man stared down at him, silent for a long moment. Martin waited.

"Look," the man said, as if he'd been interrupted. "I know this is…this can be an ordeal, or it can be relatively pleasant. That's up to you. Don't make a fuss, don't try any heroics, and you'll be all right."

Martin fancied he heard some measure of kindness in the man's voice, and he began to well up again. He screwed his eyes shut and nodded. "Okay."

"I'm going to gag you again."

"Not the tape, please –"

"No." The man retrieved the knotted tea towels and pushed the gag back into Martin's mouth, tying it securely behind his head. "That mightn't be comfortable, but you'll just have to endure it."

Martin frowned – not at the man's words, nor his tone, but at the timbre of his voice. He was roughening it deliberately, but underneath – there was something _familiar_ about it. Did they know each other? Was it some sort of personal vendetta, acquaintance against acquaintance? A business deal gone bad?

_Oh, stop it. Those things only happen in films._ Of course, most kidnappings did, too. It wasn't an everyday thing. At least not in Fitton.

"Pick yourself up a moment." The kidnapper pulled the _Sky Dancers_ quilt from beneath Martin's body and settled it over him. "It's damp, but you're not going to freeze."

Surely he didn't expect a thank-you? No, he couldn't have, since Martin was gagged. Still, he nodded, and let out a sigh. It was only a single bed, and his arms weren't tightly stretched. He could spend the night in relative comfort, if not luxurious indulgence.

"Sleep tight," the man said, and went back up the staircase. 

Martin sank back against the pillows with another sigh. He'd never sleep, he knew that much. _Might as well resign myself to this for the next eight or so hours._ He wished he'd thought to ask for some food, or at least water; he was hungry and thirsty, and the lovely aromas from the kitchen had wakened his cravings anew when he'd been taken to the loo.

Ten minutes later, meditating on the possibilities those fragrances had offered, he'd succumbed to an exhausted and dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

He awoke, blinking, and this time remembered exactly where he was. He tried to sit up, but the position in which he was bound wouldn't allow for it. His shoulders ached, and he tugged at the rope half-heartedly.

His right hand fell to the surface of the bed.

Martin stared for a moment in utter incomprehension. Slowly, he flexed the fingers of his hand and felt the blood tingling through his veins. He held his hand up, staring, unable to believe his luck. Quickly, he glanced around, looking for an upper window, but found none.

_Right. Stairs. Once you untie yourself._

He picked at the knot on his left hand and marvelled as it unravelled easily. He sat up, groaning softly, and reached behind his head to unpick the knot of the gag. He pulled it out of his mouth, working his jaw to relieve the ache, and dropped the sodden thing on the pink girly quilt.

There was no way to tell the time without a window. Had he slept the night through? Didn't seem likely. Not a moment to lose. He pushed himself off the bed and went to the staircase. There were fourteen stairs to the door, and if it was locked, Martin would have to find something to pry it loose. He crept up the stairs, wincing at the squeak of the treads, and stopped at the top, praying that it wasn't barred. Cautiously, he reached out and turned the knob.

The door swung open silently, revealing a spotless kitchen, with morning light spilling through the window, and a door. A beautiful, beautiful door with an oblong window to what looked like a garden.

_Yes, yes!_ Martin rejoiced silently. _God, did I sleep the night through?_

No matter. It was Sunday morning; Martin heard the sound of church bells, ringing as happily and as noisily as the joyful thumping of Martin's heart. He stepped onto the top tread.

Round the corner, yawning, wearing a brown silk dressing gown, came a man with dishevelled hair, rubbing at his eyes.

Martin froze as the man stopped dead. 

"Jesus Christ!"

Martin's mouth opened, but he couldn't make a sound. He started in fright, his arms pinwheeling, and teetered backward.

Just before he began his fall down the steps, he realised he knew the man's face: it was Gordon's former pilot, Douglas Richardson.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional thanks to skywriter98, haveasipofmoriartea and smallsteps32 on tumblr for helping to resolve the coffee question. :)

*

 

Not for nothing had Douglas spent three decades as a pilot and seventeen years as a father; his reflexes were honed to a keen edge and cat-quick. Almost without thinking he reached out and grabbed the front of Martin's jacket, yanking him forward before he plummeted down the steep cellar stairs. 

Martin clung to Douglas desperately for a moment, panting and gasping, before freezing in Douglas' inadvertent embrace. Slowly, he looked up and met Douglas' gaze. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth.

"No," Douglas said, clamping one hand over Martin's mouth. "No, no. _Don't._ "

Martin's eyes got even wider and he made a strangled whimpering noise. He started to fight, and Douglas spun him round and put him in a headlock, then pushed hard behind his knees, driving him to the floor. He grasped Martin's arm and twisted it behind his back. "Are you going to be quiet?"

"I don't – please, please, you're hurting me!"

Douglas eased up ever so slightly. "You realise you're in an exceedingly vulnerable position. I could break your arm."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me. Please." Martin's body was heaving, and his voice a bit garbled from the chokehold.

"We're going back downstairs, and you're going to stay _quiet_ , or you'll be very, very sorry. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Martin gasped. "Please –"

Douglas pulled Martin up and dragged him to the stairs. "Watch your step." He kept a hold on Martin's arm as he propelled him down the stairs and back to the chair. "Sit," he snapped, pushing him down, and grabbed the gaffing tape from the bureau. He ripped off a piece and taped one of Martin's wrists to the end slat, then did the same with the other wrist. He taped Martin's ankles and knees for good measure, then ripped off one last piece. 

"Wait," Martin said, giving Douglas a teary, beseeching look. "Please don't. My – my mouth is still raw from last night."

"Gosh, that's too bad," Douglas retorted. "Your comfort is my first priority."

"I know you," Martin blurted out. "You're Douglas Richardson."

Any vague hope that Douglas had harboured that Martin might not recognise him promptly dissolved. Angrily, he slapped the tape over Martin's mouth. "You know what that means for you?" Martin shook his head, and a tear slipped down his face. "I wouldn't cry if I were you. Might not be able to breathe properly." He double-checked the bindings – no chance he'd allow Martin to escape a second time – then went to the stairs, pivoting at the foot to face Martin once more. "You try to get away again, and you'll be very, very sorry, I promise you that."

Martin bowed his head and stared at his lap. Another tear fell, disappearing into the dark cotton fabric of his trousers.

Douglas ascended the stairs and closed the cellar door, then slumped into the nearest chair. Oh God, oh _Christ almighty._ He was sunk.

He was a better than fair actor; somewhere in the ancestral woodpile, he was sure, reposed some fine fellow or miss who'd trodden the boards at the Globe. As long as he was wearing the balaclava, as long as he had the mask of anonymity, he could be a totally authentic kidnapper. He'd thought his threats to Martin last night had been remarkably effective; certainly Martin had been cowed by them. But he hadn't been cowed enough to stay where he was. That said, Douglas had to give him points for determination. It must have taken a great deal of effort to free himself – good job he hadn't managed to do so until morning.

"Damn, damn, _damn_ ," Douglas groaned, and buried his face in his arms. Now what? Martin had seen his face, knew who he was. He certainly wasn't going to keep his mouth shut once he was freed. Douglas had put all his eggs in one basket and then flung it into a brick wall. He'd counted on Martin never seeing his face. He'd counted on him staying put and being perfectly docile. He'd counted on not really having to use violence at all. A perfectly pleasant, civilised abduction, straight down the toilet. And no matter how nasty his threats, he couldn't bring himself to kill or even really hurt Martin Crieff, who was after all an innocent victim, and whom he really couldn't blame for trying to escape. Douglas could manage to kill to defend his own life, or his daughter's, or even his ex-wives. But murdering in cold blood? God, no.

He could _threaten_ to kill Martin; he'd as much as said so just now. Leave him somewhere that was difficult to find, after obtaining the ransom money, and get on a plane for anywhere. Ibiza. Florence. Nice. Maui. Barbados. He had about eight hundred in the bank, and he might be able to arrange for a quick if shady deal for the Lexus. Sophie would get the house….

He'd never see Sophie again, never see her blossom into adulthood, never see her marry, never see the children she might one day bear. As a fugitive, he couldn't endanger her or himself by making contact. The thought made him want to curl up and weep. What was the penalty for kidnapping in the UK anyhow? Douglas groaned again. _You might have thought this out a bit more thoroughly._ But his luck had never failed, up 'til now.

Wearily, he sat up and laid both hands flat on the table. _No. You're going about this all wrong. You are an inherently fortunate individual. This is a stopgap, no more. Calm down, think it through, and everything will be fine._

_Probably._

 

*

 

He showered and dressed, then came downstairs for a late breakfast. He read the newspaper as he ate, checking carefully for any mention of the kidnapping. Satisfied that Gordon was complying with his demands, he washed his plate and coffee cup, looked at the leftover bacon, and sighed. Quickly, he scrambled three eggs, grilled a tomato, buttered some toast and made more coffee, then descended the stairs with a tray carefully balanced in his hands. "Are you hun –" He froze.

Martin was gone.

He held on to the tray for lack of anything else to cling to, and then heard a muffled whimper. He frowned and peered through the gloom, taking two cautious steps forward. "Oh, _bloody_ hell."

Martin hadn't escaped – he'd tipped the chair over, probably in another effort to free himself, and was lying awkwardly on the floor, still firmly taped to the chair. He looked at Douglas and made another pathetic whimpering noise.

"I should leave you there." Douglas set the tray on the bureau and glared down at Martin. "Trying to escape again?"

Red-faced, Martin squeezed his eyes shut and sniffled.

"Good Lord." Douglas took hold of the chair and heaved it, and Martin, upright once more. "I suppose I'll have to bolt it to the wall. I brought you some food. If I take the tape off, are you going to stay quiet?" Martin nodded, and Douglas prised a corner of the tape free. "Right. Hold still, I'll move slowly." He peeled the tape off carefully, but it still adhered to Martin's mouth and took off bits of skin from his chapped lips. Martin flinched, but remained silent. "Sorry," Douglas said. Then, remembering that he was supposed to be ruthless and cold-blooded, he grasped Martin's hair. "You talk above a whisper and you'll regret it."

Martin licked his lips and nodded again, as best as he could with Douglas' fingers entwined in his messy curls. "Could I have a drink first?"

"It's coffee." Douglas lifted the heavy mug from the tray. "How do you take it?"

"Um – just black, please." 

"Black. Very well." Douglas held the mug to Martin's lips. "Here."

Martin sipped carefully and hissed a little as the hot liquid touched his swollen, raw mouth. He sipped again. "Thank you."

Douglas put the coffee on the tray. "I didn't bring any condiments and don't feel like trotting upstairs for any, so you'll have to eat your eggs plain. You're not one of those tiresome vegan people, are you?"

"No. No, I like eggs." Martin glanced at him timidly. "And bacon."

"How extremely convenient." Douglas picked up the plate, then sighed. "Look. I don't fancy feeding you, so I'm going to undo one arm. I want to hear that you're not going to give me any trouble."

"No. No, I promise."

"Good." Douglas cut one hand free. "I'm going to run out of tape at this rate." He set the plate on Martin's lap and handed him a fork. "You're lucky you didn't break your arm or leg when you fell over, you know."

Martin opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly and looked down at his plate. He took a forkful of eggs and shovelled it in, as if he hadn't eaten for weeks.

Douglas sat on the bed and folded his arms. "What?"

"Sorry?"

"You were about to say something."

Martin swallowed. "No, no." He reached awkwardly for the coffee and took another sip, then carefully set it back on the bureau.

"No, please. Do speak your mind, as long as you're able to speak."

Martin licked his lips. "Well, I was going to thank you, but as you're the one who trapped me down here, I decided not to thank you after all."

"Fair enough." Douglas watched Martin eat for a moment. He certainly was enthusiastic. "Blurting my name out was a rather foolish tactic on your part."

Martin stopped in the middle of a huge bite of bacon, tomato, and toast. "Um –" He chewed hurriedly and swallowed. "I promise not to say anything. About your identity, I mean."

"Oh, rubbish. Of course you're going to tell Gordon who did it. I'm not a complete moron, Mr. Crieff." Douglas sighed heavily. "The exchange was meant to be simple – you for the money, but since you've thrown one hell of a spanner into my works, here's what's going to happen: on Tuesday, I'm going to collect the ransom money and leave you here. I'll give your darling Gordon some clues that will lead him on a bit of a wild goose chase, to give myself a head start. They'll find you, eventually – perhaps Thursday or Friday. You won't starve to death, though you might be a bit uncomfortable. It's no more than you deserve for catching me unawares. By the time they find you, I'll be long gone, and it won't matter _what_ you tell him."

Picking up his fork again, Martin took another bite of bacon, then sliced clumsily at his tomato. Failing to cut it with the fork, he speared it on the tines and brought it to his mouth, taking a large bite. He chewed slowly, then said, "I might die of thirst."

"You won't die, for God's sake," Douglas snapped. "Look, I'll rig something up for you. A bottle of water and a straw or something."

Martin muttered something inaudible, then took another forkful of bacon and eggs.

Douglas frowned. "What's that?"

"I said maybe if you hadn't quit, you wouldn't have works to throw a spanner in. Or – never mind." 

"Quit?"

"That's right," Martin said. His face was red. "If it was such a terrible job, you could have at least given him some notice, instead of – of leaving him in the lurch. You've worked for him for _years_ , you know he goes to Monaco for the Grand Prix, and you chose to abandon him at a crucial juncture. You made him look ridiculous in front of his clients. When he finds out you kidnapped me, he's going to do everything he can to ensure that you receive the maximum penalty for what you've done." This little diatribe delivered, Martin lifted his chin. "You've thrown a spanner into your _own_ works. S-so there."

Anger spilled into Douglas' heart, hot and acidic. He got to his feet. "Is _that_ what he told you? That I _quit_?" 

Martin blinked uncertainly. "Well – yes."

"That's what he told you," Douglas said in a soft voice. "That I quit. Well, I've got news for you, _boy toy_. I didn't quit. He bloody sacked me. He sacked me and dissolved my pension without so much as a by-your-leave and left me destitute. Fifteen years I worked for that wretched waste of space, and somehow it slipped his mind to tell me he'd re-incorporated in bloody Luxembourg. And why is that, I wonder? Because he never intended to tell me in the first place, _that's_ why. Because he knew he could take a quarter of a million pounds that he promised me and dissolve it –" Douglas snapped his fingers. "Like _that_. Clever of him, I've got to admit."

"But…but…." Martin shook his head. "He said you quit."

"I guess there's a lot he doesn't tell _you_ , either," Douglas spat. "Want to hear something else? He took a very handsome young man along with him to Paris two months ago. And to Amsterdam before that, different handsome young man. Can't think why, since he's got such a devoted husband at home." He snatched the tray from Martin's lap. "You've eaten enough." He set the tray on the bed, grabbed the roll of tape and ripped off a long length to re-secure Martin's right hand, then tore off another piece to gag him. He picked up the tray and marched to the steps, then looked at Martin, who was staring in fright or disbelief or simple stupefaction. 

_Jesus Christ, this has to be the stupidest mistake you've ever made in your life._

Douglas hurled the tray against the wall. The dish and coffee cup shattered. Brown liquid sprayed across the wall and dripped to the floor. Douglas stopped, startled into quietude by his own burst of rage. His heart raced unevenly, and he glanced at Martin, who now appeared genuinely frightened, cringing in his chair.

Covering his face with his hands, Douglas took a few deep breaths and willed himself to calm down. After a moment, he looked at the mess he'd made. The plate was Spode Lausanne, quite nice, and he'd broken it for nothing.

Who gave a damn? It wasn't as if he needed to clean up, or take his plates with him.

He pounded up the stairs, not giving Martin another glance.

 

*

He watched television for two hours, clicking restlessly through the channels without settling on one programme for more than five minutes. Martin's stricken face kept drifting into his inner eye. It hadn't been disbelief or stupidity; it had been the expression of a man receiving a shattering mental blow.

Douglas was perfectly aware of his own capacity for cruelty. His wit stung at times, but it was for scoring cleverness points and getting one-up on people in arguments, and he almost always held it in check. The few times he'd stooped to hitting below the belt, it was always apparent – the target of his sarcasm or pique always showed, if only for a split second – a sagging of the face, a blink, tightening of the mouth. It was a cheap, nasty way to score points, and he felt cheap and nasty and he hadn't scored any points at all. It wasn't Martin's fault that Gordon was such a complete bastard, after all. Martin might have been a brainless boy-toy, but he didn't deserve to be kicked whilst already down. 

Sighing, Douglas heaved himself up and trudged down the cellar stairs. Martin was sitting quietly, staring down at his knees. "Do you need the loo?"

Martin nodded without looking at him. Douglas cut him free, tied his hands in front of him with rope, and after brushing broken shards of good porcelain into the corner, led him upstairs, hovering about-face in the doorway as Martin made use of the facilities. When he was done, Douglas steered him back downstairs, re-tied his hands to the chair, and carefully peeled the tape from Martin's mouth. Martin winced, but said nothing, and went back to staring at his knees.

The bed creaked as Douglas lowered his weight onto it. "Look," he began. "Martin…." It was odd to say his name. "What I said before, about Gordon. It wasn't true. I was a bit frustrated and angry, and I shouldn't have said those things. I apologise."

From upstairs came the faint noise of some comedy programme – a quick burst of uproarious tinned laughter. Martin continued to stare downward. His chin trembled a bit, but he made no response.

"He travels with all sorts of people – men, women, young, old, good-looking, ugly – but I'm sure you know that."

Silence.

"Once I was flying him to Los Angeles and there were three would-be actors along for the ride, and –"

"Please leave me alone." 

Martin's words, though softly spoken, had ferocious impact. "Martin –"

Martin looked up, and his eyes, though suspiciously bright as well as a bit red, gazed at Douglas evenly. "You didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. I realise I'm being forced to stay here, but there's absolutely no reason for us to try to make pointless conversation. So if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be left alone, please."

It was beyond absurd, but Douglas felt a sudden pang of – was it disappointment? Hurt? _God, don't be such an utter arse. Did you think he was going to fall prey to your fatal charm, especially after you terrified him, tied him up, then treated him like dirt and told him his husband was cheating on him?_ Clearly Stockholm Syndrome wasn't happening here, and that was probably just as well. He got up, then took the knotted tea towels from the bureau. "Open your mouth." 

Martin heaved a sigh and opened obediently. 

"I'm sorry to have to keep you trussed up like this, but I can't have you attracting attention. I'll be down with tea in a few hours. A sandwich or two. Ham and cheese." _Stop talking, you sound like a complete idiot._ He moved to the stairs, picked up the overturned tray, and clung to the supporting post for a moment. "Look, I'm a desperate man, but I'm not a –" _Hold on. Do you really want to tell your kidnap victim that you're not a monster, not above doing whatever's necessary to obtain your final objective?_ "I don't usually deal in that sort of…verbal attack, I suppose. I shouldn't have said that to you."

Martin tilted his head delicately to one side as if in inquiry, then went back to gazing at his knees. Fascinating view, apparently.

_Excellent. Now that you've established yourself as a polite, apologetic kidnapper with impulse control issues and thoroughly demoralised and bewildered the poor man, go upstairs and leave him alone as he asked you to._

 

*

 

Douglas fell asleep in front of the television and woke up to the news. Still nothing about Martin's disappearance. He couldn't quite believe how thoroughly Gordon was capitulating to his demands. If someone had abducted the love of Douglas' life, he wouldn't stop until he found the person responsible and had them thrown into prison.

That said…perhaps Gordon _was_ looking for the person responsible.

Slowly and quietly, as if Gordon were in the next room, Douglas arose and went to the front door, opening it and peering out. Nothing; no police cars, no suspiciously innocuous vehicles. Mrs. Clay next door was watering her jonquils, the twins from the house four doors down were fighting desultorily over a book, and the newlyweds across the street – Arden or Ardwell or something – were having a picnic on the patch of grass in front of the house and snogging over glasses of wine. They noticed him and waved, and he waved back casually. The sky was fading blue with gilt-pink clouds from the sunset, and nobody knew that Douglas Richardson had a young man tied up in his basement. Things were looking up.

He went back inside and made tea and sandwiches, and took them down to the basement, setting the tray on the bureau. "I'm going to untie you so you can have a bit of a stretch and eat, but if you try to run or make trouble, you'll smart for it." He untied Martin, noting that the care and feeding of a captive was a bit more troublesome than he'd initially bargained for. But he knew better than most people how uncomfortable it could get sitting in one place for hours and hours, and he couldn't let the man starve. He was already on the slender side, as if he didn't get enough to eat. Interesting, as Gordon seemed to prefer the tanned, muscle-bound sort of physical specimen, at least judging by his taste in alternative companionship. He wondered what Gordon had seen in Martin, and vice versa. Especially vice versa.

Martin stood and stretched his arms. "Ooh."

Douglas went to the foot of the steps, guarding them. "Walk around a bit. Get the blood moving again. You don't want to end up with DVT. Er – a blood clot."

Martin frowned. Stiffly, he paced back and forth, then leant over to touch his toes. "I know what DVT means. Deep vein thrombosis."

"Sorry," Douglas said. "Have you had one before?" That would be perfect, to have Martin throw a clot under his care. Keeping. Whatever.

"No. It's one of the questions on the Class One medical, as you well know."

Douglas blinked at the curious admixture of hauteur and defensiveness in Martin's voice. " _You_ took the Class One medical? Are you a pilot?" This was new. Gordon had never mentioned it, and Douglas had scarcely said two words to Martin before all this.

"You don't have to say it like that." Martin linked his hands together behind his back, bent over, and raised his hands toward the ceiling.

"Sorry, I'm just surprised. You never said. Gordon never said."

"Well, I'm not a pilot, as it happens. I failed the CPL." Red-faced, Martin straightened up and glared. 

"Ah. It is a difficult test." Douglas had breezed through his CPL, but it didn't seem the appropriate time to mention it. "Lots of people fail on their first go."

"And on their second and third?" Martin thumped onto the bed and drew the tray close. He picked up a ham and cheese sandwich and began to eat.

"Ah."

"I'm not stupid," Martin said around a mouthful of sandwich. "I just – I freeze up when I'm taking examinations, that's all. I've always been like that." He sipped tea and gulped another bite.

Douglas decided to tread lightly. "Perhaps Gordon can quiz you beforehand." He found it difficult to imagine Gordon patiently revising with Martin – according to Gordon's ex-wife, he'd scarcely given his own son the time of day – but love was odd. One did things for lovers that would be unthinkable for blood relatives.

"No, he'd never – he's too busy."

 _No, he'd never_ was probably more like it. Douglas gazed intently at Martin's face, but Martin was eating and except for a faint furrow in his forehead, seemed placid enough. "How's the sandwich?"

"Delicious." Martin chewed another bite, took a sip of tea, and ran his hand back and forth over the surface of Sophie's old duvet. "Did Gordon really sack you?"

Douglas' mouth twisted wryly. "Yes."

"And strip away your pension?"

"Yes."

Martin sighed softly. "That doesn't…it doesn't give you the right to kidnap someone, no matter how angry you are." He peeked at Douglas quickly, then took another sip. "I-I mean I see why you did it, but it's not right."

"There's very little justice in the world," Douglas said. "If Gordon does everything he's meant to do, you'll be back home within the week." He watched Martin eat the last of his sandwich. "One more loo break before I –" He stopped, uncertain.

"Before you tether me for the night?"

There was unexpected anger in Martin's voice. Douglas had seen touches of Martin's ire, and couldn't help liking him a little for it. "That's right," he replied evenly.

"Fine." They went upstairs again. Martin stopped just over the bathroom threshold and turned to Douglas. "I don't suppose you could let me do this in private? It's not as if there's a window to escape from."

 _A window through which I might escape_ , Douglas corrected mentally. "I suppose not. There's nothing more lethal than a safety razor in the cupboards. You get five minutes before I come in, though."

"Hmph." Martin gave him a glare and closed the door. He was feistier with food in him.

Douglas rummaged through the hall closet and found Sophie's old boom box. It was lavender, with lots of chrome. When Martin was through, he came out and eyed the stereo, but said nothing, squaring his shoulders and marching downstairs with a dignity at odds with his slight frame and faintly bedraggled appearance. Douglas followed him down and plugged the stereo into an outlet. "I'd give you a book, but it's hard to read with your hands tied, and I've only got the one television. You can listen to the stereo, though. Radio 4?"

"All right," Martin replied. "Thank you," he added grudgingly.

Douglas took more care binding Martin to the bed this time. He gave him a bit more slack, but double-knotted the rope and checked it thoroughly. "Is the duvet enough?"

"Yes. Was it your girlfriend's?"

"If it were, I'd have been arrested for underage sex long before I entered into a career as a kidnapper. How many grown women do you know who use Sky Dancer bedding?"

Martin turned a bit red. "I was just curious."

"It belonged to my daughter. She didn't take it with her when she moved out, more's the pity." A stab of longing pierced Douglas' middle. Sophie was on summer hols; he'd try to see her once more before he had to flee the country. Tomorrow was the only day to do it. 

"The blonde girl who was with you before we flew to St. Moritz?"

"That's right," Douglas said, surprised. "How did you know?" He tuned the stereo to Radio 4, leaving it loud enough to hear but not so loud as to be obnoxious.

"I saw you with her. You were hugging and kissing her and…well, I suppose I remembered, that's all." Martin sounded defensive again.

"Funny, I rather thought I was beneath your notice." Douglas picked up the tea towels.

Martin's face was even ruddier. "I'm not a snob."

"Gordon certainly is."

"Well, I'm not Gordon."

Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "So I'm discovering." 

"Please," Martin said. "Let me go. I promise I won't say anything, and I – I'll even ask Gordon to give you a reference. I swear, I won't say a word."

"And don't you think that Gordon will put two and two together if you just happen to ask me for a reference immediately following your kidnapping?" He slipped the gag back into Martin's mouth, tied it tightly, and picked up the tray. He wavered for a moment, then took the plunge. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. Cooperate with me, and you'll be home in no time. All right?" He wasn't entirely certain why he'd said that…unless it was the little remark about seeing Sophie. That was…Martin Crieff wasn't quite what he'd expected.

Clear relief flooded Martin's eyes as he nodded, and Douglas went back upstairs to watch a bit more telly before turning in for the night.

Once again, his thoughts strayed to Martin, but the thoughts were tinged a softer hue. Douglas realised that he shouldn't have said a word about not hurting him, but the relief in Martin's eyes had been…gratifying, somehow.

Before he went to bed, he opened the cellar door and listened, then tiptoed downstairs. Radio 4 was murmuring quietly, and Martin was asleep, his face turned toward Douglas, his mouth slightly open. He was snoring softly.

Douglas, the ruthless, brutal kidnapper, found himself smiling as he ascended the stairs.

 

*


	6. Chapter 6

*

 

Douglas gave Martin a nod and climbed the stairs, flicking the switch and leaving him in darkness, with the soft murmuring of the radio as his only companion. He listened a bit to a man and a woman, both with quiet, sonorous voices, talking about a writer he'd never heard of, and let their voices dwindle to background murmuring as he returned to what had been niggling off and on for the better part of the day: namely, Gordon, and the fact that he'd stripped Douglas Richardson of his livelihood and pension.

It didn't take much persuading to convince Martin that Douglas had been telling the truth. Martin had overheard more than one conversation in which Gordon had displayed more than his fair share of ruthlessness. Certainly that was common enough in business, and Gordon dealt mostly with other financiers, not orphanages and animal shelters, so while his glee at what he liked to call 'kills' was a bit disconcerting, it wasn't actively disturbing. However, sacking someone and then lying about it unearthed shadows of doubt and uncertainty. Why hadn't Gordon simply been honest and said he'd fired Douglas instead of claiming that Douglas had quit?

What else, Martin wondered, had Gordon lied about?

_Other young men, perhaps._

Maybe it hadn't been true. _Douglas_ could have been lying. He'd said as much. 

Furiously blinking at the sudden stinging in his eyes, Martin twisted his neck a bit, trying to relieve some of the pressure of the gag in his mouth. It was marginally better than the tape, but still uncomfortable. He scooted awkwardly to the far right side of the narrow bed, stretched as far as he could, and managed to snag a scrap of the knotted towels and yank the gag free. He worked his jaw a bit and sighed. _Much better._

He gasped aloud in the darkness.

He could scream. If he built up a healthy lungful of air, he could bellow quite loudly and perhaps someone in the next house would hear him. He knew vaguely where he was; he'd addressed all of the invitations to last year's Christmas party because he had neat, meticulous handwriting and Gordon had balked at hiring a calligrapher, but hadn't wanted printed names and addresses either. So he remembered, more or less, where Douglas lived, a tidy street with neat houses and manicured patches of grass and gardens. The houses were only a stone's throw apart. Would his voice carry that far, and how much of a racket could he cause before Douglas ran down the stairs to take care of it, perhaps brutally?

Nervous, Martin wet his lips. He sucked in a few harsh and rapid breaths, and opened his mouth. He inhaled deeply, and then closed his mouth.

Suppose he was able to make himself heard. Then whoever lived next door would phone the police, and when the police came, they'd almost certainly investigate the house. Martin would be rescued, and Douglas would go to prison for ten or fifteen years. Gordon would be delighted to see him, and overjoyed that he'd managed to get Martin back without losing a million pounds. There would probably be lots of television and radio interviews – and maybe he'd even be able to wangle another shot at the CPL. Maybe there would be fees for telly appearances. 

Douglas Richardson may have been right about there being little justice in the world, but he'd learn that crime didn't pay.

On the other hand….

_Was_ there another hand? Douglas had _kidnapped_ Martin. He'd assaulted him, tied him up, shoved him about, shouted at him, and generally terrorised him for twenty-four hours. True, he'd kept Martin from falling down the staircase, but if Martin hadn't been his captive, he wouldn't have fallen in the first place.

Slowly and unwillingly, Martin's thoughts drifted back to Douglas' nasty insinuations about Gordon. He'd played off the blow as best he could, but he couldn't quite wrap his head round it. They'd exchanged vows, for goodness' sake, Gordon _couldn't_ have…he couldn't have. Gordon was handsome, and rich enough to have whoever he wanted, really.

Martin winced.

_\---Martin. More champers?_ Gordon's mouth curled lazily upward.

_\---I'd better not. It's making me a bit tiddly. I know I probably should have eaten both squabs, but I gobbled so much bread and I was feeling a bit full, so –_

_\---What if I wanted you to be a bit tiddly?_

Martin felt himself smiling back. _\---Why would you want that?_

_\---So I could have my wicked way with you._

_\---You don't have to get me drunk for that, you know._ Timidly, Martin reached out and caressed Gordon's cheek with the back of his hand.

_\---You really are fantastically good-looking, you know._

_\---Oh, God. No I'm not. I know you say that, but –_

_\---Shh. You are. Your wardrobe's a disaster, of course, but that can be fixed. Nothing wrong with the rest of you. Nice and lean and tight, and such a…pretty mouth. Just promise me you'll stay lean. Carolyn ballooned up – God, completely let herself go. You, on the other hand…._ Gordon caressed the length of Martin's thigh. _You wouldn't do that._

_\---Gordon, honestly –_

_\---Come on. More Cristalle, pet. They call it social lubrication for a reason._

_\---I'd love to, but I've got a removal job in the morning. In fact, I should go now._

_\---And what if I asked you not to go?_

_\---Well, then the couple who expects me to transfer the contents of their flat is going to be rather upset, I'd imagine._

_\---What if I said 'Quit your job, and let me take care of you.' What if I asked you to marry me?_

Martin had spilled his champagne before stammering out a yes. He'd gone on the removal job, but that had been the last one. Two weeks later he'd come home from a flying lesson to find two damp towels in the bathroom and a brand-new toothbrush in the bin. The weekend before their wedding he'd seen a young man in the car with Gordon, and though it could have been a client or colleague, the young man was sitting suspiciously close…and then there had been all the late nights that Gordon had supposedly spent on the phone with brokerage houses in the US, but he'd come home smelling of whisky or gin, and the unexpected trips to odd places, not centres of finance….

He screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. _This is probably not the most optimal time to contemplate the possibility of Gordon's infidelity._ What else did he have to do, though? And hadn't Douglas' pointed jibe sounded truthful, spat out in anger and haste? It wasn't the sort of thing one made up, was it? Lying about it would be crueller than telling the truth.

Sighing, Martin decided not to shout for help. It would…complicate things, and he was tired. Doing nothing in enforced stillness and silence all day was exhausting.

And maybe…maybe, just maybe, he _wanted_ Gordon to pay. To prove that Martin meant the world to him.

Maybe.

 

*

 

He was already awake when Douglas came down the stairs. "Time for the loo."

"Fantastic," Martin snapped, then shook his head. "Sorry."

Douglas' mouth tightened, but he said nothing, setting to loosening the knots that held Martin pinioned to the bed. He struggled with one for a moment. "Look, I realise this is a bit inconvenient, but it's only one more –" Abruptly, he closed his mouth and straightened. "You took the gag out."

"It was annoying," Martin replied, aware that he sounded defensive, further aware that it was idiotic to do so.

"Why didn't you yell for help, then?"

A hot blush crawled up Martin's neck. "I don't know. Maybe I should have." He glanced up at Douglas, who was scrutinising him carefully, then looked away. "Anyhow, if I really wanted to scream, I'm sure someone would hear me. It's not like you stuck a rubber ball into my mouth or anything."

Douglas snorted. "Familiar with that, are you?"

"No, of course not! I just meant – oh, never mind. Can I get up, please?"

"Certainly. Far be it for me to prevent you from making use of the facilities. Do you want a shower?"

Martin blinked. "Yes, I…I suppose so."

"I'll launder your togs. I've got a spare dressing gown you can wear. It'll drag on the ground, no doubt, but it would be marginally less ridiculous than you wearing my clothes." His expression suggested a master couturier examining a bag lady. "You're a bit ripe."

"Yours very truly!" Martin said, bristling. "That's not my fault."

"Well, perhaps," Douglas conceded. "Anyhow, even though I very much doubt a bath is standard kidnap protocol, I expect Gordon would be enraged if I didn't provide you with basic conveniences."

"Chance would be a fine thing," Martin muttered.

Douglas looked up from the knot he was undoing. "What's that?"

"Nothing." Martin shook his head and watched Douglas' hands, large and blunt and capable, as he freed Martin's wrist from the ropes. "How long have you been a pilot?"

"Twenty-six years." Douglas cocked an eyebrow, and then moved to the other side of the bed. "Until recently. Why?"

"Just curious. You – you liked it, I suppose."

"Loved it," Douglas said, and his mouth tightened abruptly. "Now do you mind if we leave this particular topic alone?"

"Oh. Oh. Sorry." Martin bit his lip. "I mean, I realise it's a painful subject. I didn't mean to upset you, I just thought that –"

" _Martin._ "

Martin met Douglas' gaze, a little startled. He didn't recall Douglas calling him by name before. "Yes?"

Douglas shook his head. "Nothing. There, you're free. Careful, it might tingle a bit."

"Ooh – yes, it does." Martin rotated his shoulders; his hands sat uselessly in his lap. He tried to flex his fingers, and Douglas picked one of his hands up and began chafing blood back into the starved fingers. After being confined, it ached, but felt lovely at the same time. "That…." Martin stared down at Douglas' hands massaging his own and thought about pulling away, then decided not to. "Feels nice."

Abruptly, Douglas dropped Martin's hand. "Sorry," he murmured. "Come on, get up. I'll have breakfast ready by the time you're through with your shower."

Douglas' bathroom was luxurious, even sybaritic for a small house, though it wouldn't have been up to Gordon's standards. There was no bathtub, but the glassed-in shower stall was enormous, with four jets, and a rough, oddly pleasant tile underfoot. Martin lathered up, revelling in abundant hot water and a lovely, creamy bath wash that scented the billowing clouds of steam with a bright, peppery fragrance. He scrubbed vigorously and let the water run over sore, cramped muscles, then towelled off and wrapped Douglas' dressing gown around him. It too was luxurious, plain charcoal grey, but made of silk in such a wonderful texture that Martin couldn't keep from touching it, rubbing his hand up and down the fabric before letting it envelop his body. It did drag a bit, so Martin hiked it up, tied the belt tightly, and went down the hall to the kitchen, feeling a bit ridiculous, but certainly less grubby and disreputable-looking.

Douglas glanced at him and turned a rasher of bacon. "You seemed to enjoy yesterday's breakfast, so I made the same thing."

"That's fine." Martin looked around awkwardly. "Um…can I help?"

For a moment Douglas just peered curiously at Martin, then nodded as if something had pleased him. "Yes – in fact you can. Get the milk from the fridge, if you please, and the grapefruit juice if you want some. Kettle's on otherwise. Plates are in the upper cupboard there, and utensils in that drawer."

Martin set the table for two and readied the tea as Douglas served the food. They sat and ate quietly for a few minutes, the silence broken only by the faint clatter of cutlery on porcelain.

"It's a bit odd, this," Martin ventured at last.

"What's that?"

"This," Martin said, indicating the meal with a wave of his hand. "Just – I mean, just sitting here with you. Eating."

"Well, if I'm not going to kill you, I probably shouldn't let you starve."

"No, I mean i-it's, erm, the experience. It's a bit odd, that's all."

"Ah. I see." Douglas cut half a tomato into quarters and popped one in his mouth, chewing contemplatively. "I suppose this isn't standard kidnap protocol either."

"Not quite." Martin finished his tea and poured another cup. "We've never really chatted. It's not that I didn't want to, but you always seemed so busy, and Gordon is a bit…well, not interested in flying."

"Most people aren't."

"Some of us are." Martin felt the beginnings of a blush. "Anyway, it's not because I'm snobby or anything. I'd have loved to talk to you about flying, or…or whatever."

Douglas eyed Martin speculatively. "Whatever?"

Martin shrugged. The blush spread up his neck and over his face. "I've seen you talking with the fellows at the airfield and other people – Carolyn and Arthur and your daughter and you always –" He shrugged again. "It just seems like you…I don't know."

"Am I to understand that Gordon isn't the world's most scintillating conversationalist?"

"He's fine," Martin replied defensively, suddenly remembering his role as hostage and Douglas' as kidnapper. "He's terribly busy, that's all. He hasn't lots of time for idle chat. That's not to say he doesn't chat with me. He does, sometimes. When he's not busy."

"And of course he's _terribly_ busy." Douglas' tone was waspish.

His cheeks burning, Martin crossed his arms and scowled. "It won't do you any good, trying to – to get me to sympathise with you. I'm not Patty Hearst."

Douglas simply shrugged and picked up the newspaper lying next to his plate. He perused the front page briefly, then opened it. "Nothing about you in here."

"Why would there be? You told Gordon not to involve the police. Clearly he's concerned for my safety."

"I suppose he is, at that." Douglas went back to the paper and turned the pages in silence.

"What?" Martin demanded.

"Sorry?"

"You obviously have more to say." Martin stabbed at the last piece of bacon on his plate and tucked it in his mouth, talking between chews. "You told him that you'd kill me if he called the police, so he hasn't called the police, and yet you seem to have some sort of problem with that."

"I don't have a problem." Douglas kept his eyes on the paper.

"Then why did you make the comment?"

"Look," Douglas said, putting the paper down. "If one of my loved ones had been abducted, I'd move heaven and earth to get them back. And I'd notify the police. The Met kidnap unit has an excellent track record of rescuing victims alive. And Gordon is so bloody parsimonious I'm positively astounded that he hasn't got them working double-time, at taxpayer expense."

"Maybe they are," Martin retorted. "Quietly. They could be outside the door right now for all you know." He stood up, and Douglas put the paper down. "Don't worry, I'm not going to bolt," Martin said in his most withering voice. "I'm going downstairs. You can come and tie me up when you've finished your breakfast." He turned and marched down the stairs, holding the dressing gown carefully so as not to trip. He flung himself disconsolately on the bed and listened to two people chatting smugly about internet dating.

A short while later, Douglas descended the stairs cautiously, burdened by an armload of books. He set the books on the table beside the bed and hovered, looking a bit uncertain. "Martin."

"What? You want me in the chair again, or will you tie me to the bed this time?" He felt unexpected teary-eyed rage and wouldn't speculate why that was so. 

"No, I…I just wanted to…I shouldn't have implied that Gordon wasn't concerned about you. That was wrong."

"Skip it," Martin said in a half-whisper.

"I'm sure he's wracked with anxiety."

"I'm sure he is." Martin turned away so Douglas wouldn't see his trembling lips.

"I've brought you some books. Something to pass the time." Douglas picked up the pile from the table and set them at the foot of the bed. Three went sliding, and he caught them, making a separate little stack. "It's all flying stuff. I thought that maybe you'd want to…sort of stay in gear, as it were, so you'll pass your next CPL with flying colours."

Despite himself, Martin looked at the pile. The book atop the first stack was _Stick and Rudder: An Explanation of the Art of Flying._ He picked it up. "I've got this one at home."

"Well, there are others you mightn't have." Douglas slid the piles closer so Martin could examine the covers.

Martin studied the titles with interest. _The Private Pilots License Course: Flying Training (Private Pilots Licence Course)_ , _Flying Freestyle: An RAF Fast Jet Pilot's Story_ , _The Colour Encyclopedia of Incredible Aeroplanes_ , _The Air Pilot's Manual: Flying Training v. 1: Flying Training Vol 1 (Air Pilots Manual 01)_. "I don't have these, though."

"I'm sure you know most of it, but it never hurts to brush up a bit. There's a CPL guide at the bottom of the pile that might be helpful."

"Th –" Martin bit his lip and frowned. "It's going to be a bit difficult to read with my hands tied."

"I won't tie you up," Douglas said. "I'll lock the door, but if you – I won't tie you up, all right? You had better not make a racket, though." Douglas' scowl was thunderous.

"All right," Martin agreed. He opened the encyclopedia and ran his fingertips reverently over a black-and-white photo of a squadron of Spitfires. "Thank you."

"Your clothes will be dry in about half an hour." Douglas went to the stairs. "Have fun," he said, and ascended the stairs.

Martin looked after him thoughtfully, then opened the CPL guide.

 

*

 

Eight hours later, he was still reading. He'd taken two loo breaks, changed into his warm, clean, and dry clothes, and eaten a sandwich, but he was thoroughly immersed in the joys of flight, and despite his dire situation (which was admittedly somewhat less dire now) strangely content. He'd always had to read his flight books away from Gordon's jaundiced eye; Gordon never failed to make a disparaging comment about Martin's ambitions, particularly after the first two failures.

He was starting to get hungry again, though, and decided to go upstairs for a snack. He climbed the stairs, feeling distinctly odd. There was nothing about this predicament that _wasn't_ odd. He opened the cellar door and saw Douglas sitting at the kitchen table in a very nice grey suit and a violet-coloured tie, his head in his hands. As Douglas lifted his head to look at Martin, Martin saw the bright gleam of unshed tears in Douglas' eyes. 

Cautiously, he took a step forward. "Douglas?" He moved closer, and Douglas let out a sigh that seemed to set his entire frame to trembling. "Douglas, are you all right?"

 

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indebted to the fine folks at http://forums.flyer.co.uk/ from whom I stole Martin's technobabble nearly word for word.

*

 

Douglas' phone buzzed with a text. 

_No need to pick me up Ill meet you at the restaurant XOXO_

Douglas gave his tie a final adjustment and looked in the mirror. Not bad; one wouldn't be able to tell at a single glance that he was in the most desperate straits of his life. He needed a haircut, though; always _au courant_ with his personal grooming, he'd nonetheless neglected, in an effort to curb spending, his monthly appointment at the barber's, a visit that encompassed a scalp massage, haircut, manicure, and shave. Funny how rapidly and alarmingly those little luxuries added up.

He went downstairs and into the kitchen, opening the cellar door quietly to check on Martin without alerting him to the fact that he was headed out. He'd let him up to use the loo an hour before, so Martin wouldn't need it for another few hours, and he'd make Martin something to eat when he came back from dinner. He listened closely and heard the nearly imperceptible sound of a turning page just above the low murmuring of the radio. He closed the door and locked it, then double-checked the cooker. He didn't want to leave the basement door unlocked, but if there were a fire or some other emergency…no. Martin would be fine, and Douglas wouldn't be gone for more than three hours. Shaking his head, he scooped up his keys and depressingly thin wallet and left the house.

He paused in the act of climbing into his car, then went back into the house and silently unlocked the basement door.

Sophie was already seated when he entered L'Abate; head down, studying the menu, she didn't see him come in. He stood still for a moment, heedless of the friendly and welcoming maître d', and watched her. She was so beautiful that his chest actually ached. Her sleek, shining hair was tucked behind her ears, and she had only a little of the baby roundness of her childhood – the planes of her face were more angular than the last time he'd seen her, and her expression was sweetly serious as she inspected the menu. Douglas' heart clenched painfully. 

As if she'd sensed his scrutiny, Sophie looked up and instantly her face was wreathed in smiles. "Daddy!" She rose as Douglas forced himself forward, and embraced him. She smelled of some perfume a bit too sophisticated for a girl of seventeen, something like Calèche or Chanel – probably she'd nicked it from Annabel's dressing table. 

He hugged her tightly, then held her away. "Let me look at you. Is this one of yours?" He nodded at her dress, a full-skirted cream-coloured silk with a skirt just short enough to be flirtatious. Sophie was an aspiring fashion designer and was heading to Central Saint Martins in September. She'd be the only fashion designer whose dad was on the lam.

"You like it?" She gave a little twirl.

"Gorgeous, darling." He escorted her back to her chair and seated himself. "You've been looking over the menu, I see. Anything in particular?"

"Branzino, I think. Yum yum. You're looking marvellous, Daddy. I love the long hair."

"Unemployment agrees with me." Douglas managed a smile. "Now, let's see. What shall we start with?"

Sophie, always a cheery and gregarious girl, was full of chatter, talking volubly about the events both trivial and momentous that made up her busy life, scarcely giving Douglas a chance to get a word in edgewise, but it was just as well; while he listened to her and made the appropriate enthusiastic responses, on another level he was drinking in every gesture, every nuance of her lovely face, every rising and falling note in her voice, and storing it up to remember for the rest of his life. On a third level, he was already missing her, and bitterly lamenting the turn his life had taken. He wanted to clasp her close and simply cuddle her for an hour, but he couldn't betray himself. He couldn't bear to see her disappointment. Desultorily, he picked at his filet, hardly tasting it.

"Enough about me, I've been nattering forever." Sophie took a sip of her wine. "What's happening with you, Daddy?"

 _Well, darling, you know I was sacked, but what you don't know is that I abducted the husband of the man who sacked me, and I'm going to flee the country tomorrow. Other than that, nothing much._ "Oh, the usual. Thinking about working, but enjoying leisure a bit too much to really bother looking."

"Well, if anyone deserves a rest, it's you." She gave him a sudden arch look. "Seeing anyone?"

"Not at the moment. You?"

"Don't try to distract me, Daddy. It's been ages since you've properly dated anyone. Don't you think it's time you settled down with some nice woman?" She sipped delicately at her wine. "Or man?"

Douglas choked mid-swallow and managed somehow not to disgrace himself. He took a fortifying drink. " _Sorry_?"

"Oh, come _on_ , Daddy. I am side-eyeing you _so hard_ right now."

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"I know you're bi. It's not a big deal."

Heat crept up Douglas' neck and into his cheeks. "And just how do you know that, may I ask?"

"I remember when you and Mummy were still together, that guy Mummy brought home, and you all –" Sophie made a fluttering gesture with her hand. "And then you had that big fight."

Douglas' mouth dropped open. How had she known about the handsome one-night-stand that Annabel had towed home almost ten years ago, the only other Sky God Annabel had deemed worthy of a three-way. And how nonchalantly he'd strolled out afterward, leaving Douglas and Annabel utterly spent and sorry they'd ever even contemplated the experience, which had laid bare too many flaws in their own relationship and led to innumerable mutual infidelities before they'd finally agreed to split up. "How in God's name –" 

"I eavesdropped a lot." She popped a fingerling potato in her mouth. "Anyhow, the point is that it doesn't matter whether you're with a man or a woman. You shouldn't be alone, Daddy – you've got so much to give."

Shame suffused Douglas' heart. "That's a lovely thing to say, darling."

"Well, it's true. Haven't you met anyone during your…hiatus, or whatever?"

Quite suddenly, Douglas got a weird and unexpected flash of Martin Crieff's face, and he nearly blurted his name out before biting his lip hard enough to hurt. _Why, yes, Sophie – that fellow I kidnapped, the one I was telling you about earlier? He's the most interesting person I've met this year, and I know you're probably going to say that any cowed, frightened victim is going to be at least a little interesting, but this one's different! He's braver than I thought he'd be and he was scrappy enough to almost get away before he collapsed for some reason – I didn't think people fainted from fear, but I guess I was wrong! At any rate, he likes flying and he's sort of nice-looking if a bit on the weedy side, and he seems altogether too decent to be with a bastard like Gordon Shappey. Do you think I should ask him on a date? Oh, wait, not possible. I'll be on the run after tomorrow._

"What's the matter, Dad?"

Douglas gazed at his daughter in abject despair. After tomorrow Sophie would know Martin's name; the kidnapping would be all over the news, and his poor darling girl would have to cope with the humiliation of having a father guilty of an indictable offence.

"Daddy?"

"Sorry, darling." Douglas stretched his mouth into an approximation of a smile. "Woolgathering. No, I haven't really met anyone. I've been living a bachelor's life."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to set you up with someone. Oh! Did I tell you who came into the shop last week? You're never going to believe it. I was lining up a row of handbags and shoes, emerald-green patent leather, _glorious_ stuff –"

Douglas tried to focus on what Sophie was telling him, smiling and nodding in the right places, but he found himself thinking about Martin Crieff. What if he went back to the house and freed Martin, drove him home, begged him not to say a word about his kidnapper's identity? Douglas would head north, Leeds or Manchester or York, someplace with a thriving population, and hang out his shingle as a flying instructor, or find a job in air traffic control, anything to make a living. He could live frugally, modestly, even humbly, but the prospect of never seeing Sophie again was unbearable.

Impossible. If their roles were reversed, Douglas would have been furious at the insult to his dignity and the rough treatment he'd received. He'd be on the phone to the papers and television stations in no time flat. Martin would get lots of positive attention for helping to bring a criminal to justice, and Douglas, much as he'd have liked to, couldn't blame Martin for that.

"Bugger it – I've got to go!" Sophie drank the last of her wine and stood, tossing her napkin beside her plate and looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Promised I'd meet Christoph and Parvati at Imbibe."

"Oh, but – the profiteroles here are legendary. Can't you stay a bit longer?" Douglas pleaded.

"Can't, Daddy. I'll stop by on Thursday, how's that?" She bent and kissed him on the cheek.

Douglas rose to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over, and embraced her tightly. _My sweet baby._ He'd greeted her birth with purest joy; she'd made his life wonderful in more ways than he could possibly enumerate, and she was a lovely, kind, and thoughtful girl, an astounding feat considering her parents, both monsters of selfishness. He wanted to keen and cry for his loss. "I love you, darling."

"I love you too, Daddy." She pulled away, and he let go reluctantly, not wanting her to think anything was amiss. "I'll see you Thursday. 'Bye!" 

Aching, Douglas watched her go.

 

*

 

"Douglas, are you all right?"

Hastily, Douglas turned away and swiped viciously at his blurred eyes. He cleared his throat, turned back to Martin, and frowned. "Certainly I'm all right."

"You seem terribly upset."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine." Douglas rose to his feet, leaden-limbed. "Do you want something to eat?"

"Well, yes, I was coming to see if I could get a snack. If you don't mind."

Douglas took off his jacket, donned an apron, and rummaged in the refrigerator, pulling out the chicken he'd cooked on Saturday night, a container of his homemade tomato sauce, and a block of Parmesan cheese. He found pasta and set some water on the range to boil, then concentrated on chopping up some chicken. Martin sat quietly, apparently content to watch him. "There's some wine in the fridge. You might pour me a glass as well."

"Oh. All right." Martin got the wine, found glasses, and poured. "Shall I…um…grate the cheese?"

"Yes, that would be helpful, thank you. In there." Douglas pointed to the drawer where the grater was kept.

Now and then, in between steaming some veggies in the microwave and deftly shaking the pan where chicken was searing in a bit of olive oil, Douglas glanced at Martin as he grated the cheese with meticulous concentration. He'd yanked up the sleeves of his thin jumper, throwing the paleness of his arms and hands into relief. He had long, slender fingers, a bit clumsy in somewhat amusing contrast to their graceful and capable appearance, and his wrists and arms were finely modelled. Douglas eyed him reflectively. He was handsome in an odd sort of way, he supposed, with bright sea-coloured eyes and that corkscrewed ginger hair, but it was his animation that was really attractive, an endearing kind of lively, sparkling focus; watching him working so diligently, it was actually easy to see what Gordon had perceived in him and found enticing.

Martin seemed to sense Douglas' attention and looked up, wide-eyed. "Something wrong?"

Douglas shook his head. "No, nothing." He served up a plate of pasta and the chicken and vegetables, poured on the sauce, and set the plate in front of Martin. " _Bon appetit_."

"You're not eating?"

"I've eaten already." Douglas took off his apron and sat at the table, toying with the stem of his wineglass.

Martin darted a shy look Douglas' way, then dove into the meal, eating with voracious appetite. "This is delicious," he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"Glad to hear it." Douglas refilled Martin's glass.

"Thank you. Er –" Martin took a drink. "Why are you all dressed up?"

Any number of acid-tinged retorts came to mind, but Douglas didn't have the energy to spar. "I had dinner with my daughter this evening."

"I didn't realise you'd gone out."

"Yes, I'd hoped for that. Did you enjoy your reading?"

"Oh, yes. You know, I'd always assumed that a wet/dry thermometer would carry on showing temperature and dewpoint when the temperature fell below zero, but after today, I'm wondering if the ice on the wet bulb sublimates and therefore continues to cool it more than the dry bulb. But then I suppose it would take a lot of heat to get ice to sublimate. Have you ever experienced that?" Martin dug enthusiastically into his pasta.

Douglas blinked. "Sorry?"

Martin frowned ponderously, then took another bite of pasta. He chewed, swallowed, and drank some wine. "You were saying good-bye to her."

"Yes."

Another little heap of pasta and chicken disappeared into Martin's mouth. "Well –"

"Look, I know it's entirely my fault, all right? I really don't need to hear it."

"Well, it is," Martin muttered, then stared down at his rapidly emptying plate. "I'm sorry to hear it, though."

"Yes. I suppose my contingency planning was rather lacking. This hasn't quite gone the way I'd anticipated."

"It's good practise for the next kidnap," Martin said. Douglas gave him a sharp look, and Martin went on, "A-although I'm hardly one to give advice, since I've failed the CPL three times."

It was the first jest Martin had made, and it was weak, but Douglas appreciated the effort. He chuckled. "At least you can take the CPL as many times as you like. I'm not certain my nerves are quite up to kidnapping another three or four people."

Martin's smile dwindled. "I don't know if there will be a next time."

"Martin, I told you I wasn't going to hurt you."

"No, I don't mean that. I-I mean that I haven't got the money for another test."

Douglas raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I know what you're thinking," Martin said. "Gordon's rich and he could pay for a dozen more tests, but after the third failure, he…he more or less made it clear that he wasn't going to pay for me to fail again. But he doesn't want me to work, so I don't see how I'm meant to pay for the tests and medical stuff myself. And I understand that, really. It's wasteful to pour so much money into the effort and never have it pay off in a meaningful way."

"But he won't let you fail under your own steam, either," Douglas said, musing that even taking the test five times a year was a minor blip in the face of Gordon's enormous discretionary expenditures.

"I think he's a bit embarrassed by it," Martin went on. "You see, he's got friends who fly for pleasure, and I reckon it would be humiliating if word got out that I kept attempting to get the CPL and failing."

Douglas said nothing. He could well imagine that Gordon would be embarrassed by a partner who proved to be unsuccessful at anything. "I don't suppose determination counts for much with him."

"No. No, he's, er, result-oriented. But like I said, I understand."

"You want to fly, do you?"

An expression of utter yearning came over Martin's face. "It's all I've ever wanted," he replied softly.

"Then why are you letting Gordon stand in your way?"

Martin's mouth opened, then snapped shut. Vivid spots of colour stood out on his cheeks. "You wouldn't understand," he said, and pushed his plate away. "That was delicious. Thank you. I'd better go back downstairs."

Douglas thought about offering Martin the guest bedroom, then sighed. Better to keep things as they were. By this time tomorrow evening he'd be long gone, and Martin would be back with Gordon.

After Martin had retreated downstairs, Douglas tidied up and snapped off the kitchen light.

He left the cellar door unlocked again. After all, what was one more stupid risk in a weekend full of them?

 

*

 

Douglas felt himself sweating through the smooth cotton of his shirt and onto the silk lining of his jacket. It wasn't hot at all; in fact the tube station seemed unusually chilly, but his nerves, always reliably steady, seemed to be collapsing. He supposed he was owed a bit of nervous tension; this _was_ his first kidnapping.

Still, everything seemed to be in order. He'd left Martin back at the house, tied up and gagged once more, but not painfully. Once was he was safely in Lisbon – he'd decided Lisbon was a good initial way station to wherever he ultimately planned to go – he'd use the cheap phone he'd bought for this whole caper and alert Gordon as to Martin's whereabouts. Martin's eyes, as he'd endured another session of bondage that was hardly titillating, had been faintly reproachful, but he hadn't complained and had actually wished Douglas good luck before Douglas had slipped the gag back into his mouth. Douglas had been most unexpectedly touched. What an utterly bizarre situation this had become.

He'd driven his car to a local garage, paid for twenty-four hours, and left the keys beneath the floor mat, where an acquaintance, a man of mildly criminal disposition, would pick it up and sell it for cash, then wire half the money to Douglas, wherever he happened to be. He'd gone to the bank and drawn all but ten pounds out of his account. All that was left was collecting the money from Gordon using the young homeless lady he'd engaged as an intermediary for a fairly reasonable sum, and then taking a taxi to Fitton airfield, where Herc Shipwright, for a less reasonable sum, would fly him to Lisbon along with a charter group already booked for a Portuguese holiday.

So far, everything was going to plan, except Gordon hadn't turned up yet.

On the positive side of things, there didn't seem to be any police officers or detectives in the tube station either. Douglas watched carefully from behind his newspaper, but no-one seemed to be lingering suspiciously, or doubling back. The young lady glanced casually at him and held up her polystyrene cup to a passing businessman, who skirted her dramatically, an expression of palpable disgust on his handsome, empty face.

A train roared up, grinding to a halt, and disgorged scores of busy commuters, all moving at speed, none of whom resembled Gordon in the least. The temperature in the station, not to mention the mingled effluvia of more than a hundred people crammed into a small space, rose a few degrees as the departing passengers jostled against the arriving passengers and created momentary gridlock.

Douglas consulted his watch. Five thirty-nine; Gordon was ten minutes late. Douglas disappeared behind his newspaper again, hoping the young woman was reliable and remembered the face that Douglas had shown her, a Google images result of Gordon with a fairly typical scowl on his miserable countenance. But he'd signal her, if need be; they'd arranged a sort of code wherein Douglas would fold his newspaper if he spotted Gordon and his Sainsbury's carrier bags, and she would spring into action.

Five forty-four.

Five fifty-three.

The damp patches beneath Douglas' armpits grew profoundly damper.

Eight minutes after six. 

More trains came and went; more packs of aromatic humanity arrived and departed.

At half six, the girl shuffled over to the bench where Douglas sat sweating behind his newspaper and seated herself. She spoke into her cup. "I don't think he's coming, bruv."

"Give it a bit," Douglas murmured. "I'll throw in an extra ten quid."

"Right, off I go." She got up again and waltzed back to her spot.

Another half hour passed.

Douglas consulted his watch again. Seven fourteen. What on God's green earth? Surely Gordon hadn't misinterpreted the information? He waited another sixteen minutes, just to be certain, then heaved himself up from the bench, picked up his small valise containing the few clothes and sundry items he'd allowed himself for travelling, and walked toward the young lady. He drew a twenty-pound note from his billfold and gave it to her. "I suppose he's not coming after all. Thanks all the same." 

"Not bothered, bruv. Maybe next time, right?" She took the money with one quick sleight-of-hand gesture and a solemn wink, and melted into the crowd.

Puzzled and furious, Douglas walked slowly up the stairs, still looking here and there for Gordon's hard visage. He went back to the garage, retrieved his car, and made his way back to his house.

It was dark when he arrived, and all the lights were off. He let himself in, turning on lights as he walked, and went to the cellar door. When he opened it, Martin must have seen the light filtering from the kitchen, because Douglas heard excited, muffled shouting.

_Sorry, Martin, just me._

Douglas turned the cellar light on and made his way down the stairs. Martin's cries halted abruptly as he caught sight of Douglas, and his brow furrowed in evident anxiety and confusion. He stared at Douglas and held still as Douglas moved behind him and untied the gag.

Martin licked his lips. "Why are you – I didn't think you were coming back."

Douglas tossed the gag aside and sank onto the bed. "He didn't show."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, that's not funny. Don't you think I –" Martin broke off and inspected Douglas closely. "You _are_ joking, aren't you? Tell me you're joking."

Douglas met Martin's gaze evenly. "I'm not joking."

"But…but…." Martin shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I." Douglas retrieved his phone from his pocket. "We're going to find out what happened." Swiftly, he punched in Gordon's mobile number and set the phone to speaker. "Stay quiet," he cautioned.

The phone rang twice, and then Gordon's voice replied, deep and crisp. "Gordon Shappey."

Douglas pitched his own voice as low as it would possibly go. "Shappey. You missed our little rendezvous. Did you forget?"

There was a silence – a long one. Then Gordon finally replied. "No, I didn't forget."

"Then why didn't you show? Your little boy-toy's quite worried."

Another silence stretched out. "I'm not paying the ransom."

Douglas' mouth dropped open, and only ferocious control kept him from blurting " _What?_ " in his normal voice. He met Martin's eyes for a moment; Martin looked utterly stunned. "You'd better fucking explain, Shappey."

"Right. Two things, both brief," Gordon said. "One: I haven't got that kind of cash. Two: I don't negotiate with terrorists. That's all. It's fairly simple."

"Gordon!" Martin cried brokenly. "Gordon, I –" He bit his lip as Douglas tried to hush him with a gesture. "Gordon, it's Martin. Please, I'm – I thought…." He took a rapid, stuttering breath and seemed unable to continue.

Gordon didn't reply.

"Shappey," Douglas barked. "Shappey!" He glanced down at the readout.

Gordon had terminated the call.

 

*


	8. Chapter 8

*

 

As Douglas stared blankly at the phone, Martin's stomach churned; for one utterly horrible moment, he thought he was going to throw up. Gordon couldn't have – he _couldn't_ have. Impossible. _Please, God, it's not true. He couldn't have disconnected the call. Please. Please._ He didn't dare speak aloud for fear of shattering the fragile possibility that it was all a dreadful mistake. For a long and silent minute, surely the worst minute of Martin's heretofore rather dreary but suddenly wholly acceptable and even precious life, he and Douglas merely stared at one another: Douglas because he didn't seem willing to speak, Martin because he couldn't gather either the breath or a single coherent thought to speak.

"Call him back," Martin finally pleaded in a whisper. "Call him back, you've cut him off somehow."

"He hung up on me," Douglas said in an equally soft voice. He continued to regard the phone in his hand, ashen-faced, looking as though he'd been punched in the stomach. 

"That can't be. Something must have happened, the call dropped, it happens all the time, the house is in an odd spot for mobile service, just _call him back, for God's sake_."

A strange coughing, mirthless laugh emerged from Douglas' mouth. "You think he's going to change his tune? Is that what you think?"

"Douglas, I'm begging you. Please. Please." Martin heard his voice shaking and felt his chest tightening. He wanted to lean down and put his head between his knees, but he was still tied to the chair.

Douglas gave a slow shake of his head, then plugged Gordon's number into the phone. It rang once, twice, three times. Then, a quiet click.

_Oh, thank God. Thank God._

"This is Gordon Shappey. Leave a message."

Douglas disconnected the call and let out a sigh that seemed to come from his toes. Slowly, heavily, he got to his feet.

"He can't," Martin said through a desert-dry throat. "He can't." He felt hot, shameful tears stinging his eyes. "He wouldn't…it's got to be some sort of…um…." There was no way to meet Douglas' eyes without letting on that he was crying, and now he couldn't even form a proper sentence. He blinked hard and pressed his lips together tightly.

"I'm going upstairs," Douglas said, and turned on his heel in slow motion. He dragged himself up the staircase like a man slogging through knee-deep mud, leaving Martin alone.

_Don't go_ , Martin wanted to say, but all he managed was a hoarse croak. The moment the cellar door closed, his breath hitched alarmingly and he let out a single braying sob before clamping his mouth shut again. He wept as quietly as he could, sniffling, his nose clogged with involuntary tears, a sudden pain in his head swelling rapidly into agony, his heart consumed with hurt and confusion and bitter, ugly shame. 

And the source of the shame, had he been able to put it into words, was that there was an infinitesimal part of him that wasn't altogether surprised.

_A party in Knightsbridge, one of the poshest houses Martin had ever seen, let alone set foot in. The hostess, a brittle but friendly-enough woman, one of Gordon's clients, supremely elegant in pale-grey silk and a modest string of silvery-grey pearls that likely cost a year of Martin's earnings as a man with a van. Gamely, clearly sensing Martin's awkwardness, she attempted to draw him into light social conversation._

_\---And how did you and Gordon meet, Mr. Crieff? I must say you're the envy of several dozen people at this little fete alone._

_\---Oh, I-I worked for him for – erm – briefly._

_No point mentioning that Gordon had hired him for a removal job, shifting stuff out of the office of an employee he'd summarily sacked, not at a gathering like this. Martin saw a famous actor in one corner, tall, slender, radiating charm and wit, and an equally famous Tory politician in a group near the piano, laughing uproariously. No, being a man with a van carried little enough distinction at the best of times, but surely much, much less here._

_\---So you don't work for him any longer? This is a bit of a boring question, but I'm genuinely curious. What is it that you do, Mr. Crieff? Must be quite fascinating to keep Gordon's attention. Oh, Gordon! There you are. I was just asking your friend how he managed to capture you._

_Martin blushed and struggled to compose a smooth reply. ---Well, a-actually, I'm studying for my pilot's license._

_\---That's right. He's 'studying.' Gordon smirked and made invisible quotation marks with his fingers, then took a deep drink of his whisky._

_\---Oh? What does that mean?_

_\---Means he's failed the test once already._

_A ferocious blush crawled up Martin's neck. ---Well, yes, I'm afraid I get a bit nervous in testing scenarios, but I'm certain –_

_\---Which bodes awfully well for his future as a pilot. I can see it now – sudden storm, and Martin panics completely. 'I reckon I'll just crash, kiss your arse goodbye!' Gordon snorted laughter, prompting fawning guffaws from a few people who'd gathered nearby._

_The hostess frowned, tiny lines appearing between her groomed brows. ---Well, I think I ought to –_

_\---That's not it at all, Gordon._

_Martin scowled at Gordon, and their hostess smiled uneasily. ---I suppose you've got your work cut out for you, Martin. It was awfully nice talking to you. Gordon, I see a couple I want you to meet. Come this way…._

_Gordon had been tight-lipped and silent on the drive home, and Martin, sensing his annoyance, hadn't probed. But later, as they undressed, he couldn't help a slightly acid comment. ---I think I was the only one there who made under six figures. Or five figures, come to it._

_\---You humiliated me tonight, Martin. See that it doesn't happen again._

_Martin had glared, surprised into anger. ---I humiliated you? What about the way you –_

_The slap came fast and hard, violent enough to drive Martin backward a few steps. He cried out in shock and touched his mouth, frightened to see blood on his fingers._

_\---That's for mouthing off to me in front of some very important people. It happens again, you'll smart for it, love. Got it?_

_\---You hit me._

_\---Glad to see you're keeping up._

_Martin backed up until he bumped against the burled-walnut wardrobe. Tears started in his eyes. ---You can't hit me. Why did you hit me?_

_\---You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut, that's why. Now get into bed._

_Gordon's cock was hard; that and the look of mingled rage and lust on his face turned Martin's stomach._

_\---I bloody won't. I don't have to put up with this. He sidled to the bureau and opened the drawer reserved for his things: jeans and t-shirts, mostly, and two jumpers, one old and threadbare, one new, a beautiful deep green, a gift from Gordon. He'd leave it._

_Gordon slipped into his dressing gown. ---Go if you want to, pet. I won't stop you. But if you leave, you're never coming back. Never._

_Martin watched Gordon leave the room and touched his fingers to his mouth again. Not a lot of blood, but enough. Enough to propel him into rummaging for a couple of bin liners in the bathroom and filling them with his clothes. He stripped off his new suit, noting with bitter satisfaction two drops of blood on the spotless white shirt, and left the clothes crumpled on the floor as he put on track pants, an old t-shirt, the threadbare jumper, and battered trainers. He paused in the bathroom to rinse his mouth, scooped up the bin bags, and pounded downstairs._

_Gordon was at the door with a whisky in one hand and what looked like a gin and tonic in the other._

_\---Don't leave, pet._

_\---Why shouldn't I? The tears spilled down Martin's cheeks. ---Why shouldn't I leave when you treat me like a – like a – like an old piece of toast or something?_

_\---I'm sorry. It's this damned Barclays and RBS thing, it's got me so tied up in knots. I just lost my temper and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Gordon moved close and gently encircled Martin's shoulders with one arm._

_\---No, you shouldn't have. Martin held himself stiffly, not yielding to Gordon's embrace._

_\---It won't happen again, pet. Come on, give us a smile. You know I'd be devastated if you left. You know that._

But it had happened again – if not with the frightening violence of that blow, then in a dozen other ways, just as upsetting, from verbal belittlement to physical coercion. Martin had wondered, at times, if Gordon actually liked him at all, or just kept him around as a convenient and all-too-willing sex toy, if Martin had in fact prostituted himself for a nice watch and a few ultra-fancy suits.

It seemed he had his answer.

Stronger people might have become angry. But all Martin could do was cry.

 

*

 

After a while – felt like hours – Douglas plodded downstairs and untied Martin without a word. He sat on the bed and took Martin's numb hands in his. "I shouldn't have left you tied so long. I'm sorry." Gently, without meeting Martin's eyes, he chafed Martin's wrists and hands, coaxing the circulation into activity once more. "I've made sandwiches and soup. I'm afraid I didn't have the energy for something more elaborate."

"It doesn't matter," Martin said through numb lips. Silently, he followed Douglas up the steps into the kitchen. Two bowls of steaming tomato bisque stood on the table, accompanied by what looked like thick ham and cheese sandwiches. 

Douglas gestured to one of the bowls. "Sit. Eat."

"I could use some wine," Martin said. "Do you mind?"

"No." Douglas sat and began spooning up soup.

Martin poured two glasses and set one in front of Douglas before thumping into his own chair. He took a huge bite of his sandwich – evidently a massive blow to his self-esteem hadn't affected his appetite – and noticed Douglas eyeing his wineglass as if it were a coiled and hissing snake. As Douglas put the glass in the middle of the table, he frowned. "Something wrong?"

A faint smile twisted one side of Douglas' mouth. "A bit, yes. I'm an alcoholic, you see."

Martin blinked and swallowed the bite of his sandwich. "But you had wine last night –"

"And at the restaurant with my daughter. Funny how easily it can creep back into your life. I won't say I hardly noticed, but it did take place with surprising ease." Douglas got up, went to the sink, and drew himself a glass of water. "I think I'd better nip it in the bud. I'd hate to complicate my present crisis with the near-certainty of guzzling the entire bottle in front of the telly tonight."

"It's a bit odd to keep it handy if you're an alcoholic," Martin observed. "I mean – sorry, I don't know what I mean." He blushed.

"No, no, you're right. The fact is, I take some pride in being able to have it nearby. Heaven knows I always observed the bottle-and-throttle rule – mostly, anyhow – but that particular bottle was for a guest, and until yesterday, I hadn't even considered drinking during this entire debacle. Apparently I'm not entirely immune to the ravages of stress and worry. How extremely disappointing."

Martin studied Douglas' glum expression. "What are you going to do?" Try as he might, he couldn't keep the tremor from his voice.

"I told you, Martin – I'm not going to hurt you."

Relief swept through Martin at speed, leaving him feeling weak. "But what _are_ you going to do?"

Douglas shook his head. "I haven't quite sorted it out yet. I must admit I'm rather at a loss. This little adventure has proven to be a valuable lesson in coping with the unforeseen. I expected Gordon to pay up promptly, you see."

"So did I," Martin said bitterly.

"I see now that was naïve of me, considering his past behaviour."

Martin blew on his soup spoon and wouldn't look up.

"So I need a bit of time to regroup. I suppose I'll follow through with my original plan – leave here and leave _you_ here until I get a bit of a head-start, and then phone the police and give them your whereabouts."

As much as Martin appreciated Douglas' sense of delicacy in not mentioning that Gordon wouldn't care about his whereabouts, the blow of Gordon's treachery struck him afresh. He lowered his head and screwed his eyes shut. He sniffled – appalling habit, Gordon had always hated it – and wiped savagely at his nose with a paper napkin.

"Martin. Oh, dear…." Douglas pushed his chair back and moved to Martin's side, crouching down next to Martin's chair. "Martin, listen to me. That miserable toad isn't worth a moment more of your time, and certainly isn't worth your tears." He rested a tentative hand on Martin's shoulder. "Honestly –"

"Leave me alone! You don't know a thing about it." Martin turned away, shrugging off Douglas' hand and clutching the paper napkin between two hands, winding it tightly back and forth.

Douglas sighed, straightened, and went back to his seat. He ate in silence, discreetly averting his gaze from Martin's unattractively blotchy and tear-stained face. It was fully dark, and the sound of chirping night insects filtered through the open kitchen window. A little radio on the worktop sent out soft cello music, a serene, measured counterpoint to the crickets.

As Martin got himself under control again, he looked round the kitchen. It was pleasant, not as sleek as Gordon's kitchen with its massive range and glassed champagne fridge and burnished steel and stone surfaces, but a bit more rustic, with honey-coloured wood cabinets and gleaming tile worktops littered with implements of the kitchen trade – knives and pots and spices and tattered old cookbooks. It was a nice place to eat. "Who was your guest?" he asked suddenly, ashamed of the clogged tears in his voice, but might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

"Sorry?"

"Your guest. The one who drank the wine. Lady friend?"

Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "Why, yes, as it happens."

"Oh. That's nice." Why should Martin feel, of all possible emotions, disappointed? Perhaps it was just that everyone but him seemed to enjoy a healthy romantic relationship. "Have you been seeing her long?"

"Heavens, no. It was a fleeting series of rendezvouses, not that they weren't highly enjoyable." Douglas spooned up the last of his soup. "Look, I realise that all of this must have thrown you for a loop. I'll do what I can to…well, to not compound the situation."

"Thanks," Martin said. "I – I mean that. I mean, all things considered, you've been fairly decent overall. You did scare the hell out of me at first, but you've fed me and let me shower and use the loo and you gave me all those books. It hasn't been the worst. Maybe under different circumstances, we might have become friends."

Douglas smiled a little. "That would have been nice."

Another odd pang of disappointment pierced Martin's insides, and he contained a sigh. "Yeah. It would have been."

Any friend at _all_ would have been nice.

 

*

 

Gordon looked at the phone readout: an incoming call from a private number. The kidnapper calling back. Well, he hadn't been joking about negotiation. He let the call go to voice mail and waited five minutes, then ten.

No message. No further calls.

Good.

He waited another ten minutes, just to be certain, then breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the kidnapper wasn't completely stupid, and was now – unpleasant thought as it was – most likely in the act of making good on their threat to kill Martin. The thing to do immediately was to call the police, in case they sent another snapshot, this time of Martin's body. It wouldn't do to linger too long before alerting the police; they'd wonder why.

His finger hovered over the 9, and as he was about to depress the key, the doorbell shrilled twice.

"Jesus Christ!" Gordon put his hand to his heart and strode toward the door, swinging it wide.

"Hi, Dad!" Arthur stood outside, amazingly with enough sense to huddle beneath the portico, out of the rain.

"Arthur. What are you doing here?"

Arthur's smile dimmed a bit. "I don't want to bother you or anything. It was Martin I really came to see. He promised to go down to the pub tonight for a pint. Well, Martin will have a pint. I'll probably just have an orange squash or pineapple juice or something. Even though they're little tiny –"

"Martin's not here, Arthur."

The smile dimmed a bit more. "Oh. Gosh. Where is he?"

"He's out with friends." The lie slipped out so quickly. Gordon bit his lip in irritation. Should he have told Arthur about the kidnapping? No, no – the less Arthur knew about _anything_ , the better. And there would be a hundred questions, none of which Gordon was prepared to answer.

"Oh." Arthur's face fell completely. "But his car's in the drive."

"For God's sake, Arthur, they picked him up in their bloody car. You see how that works? Look here, I'm really very –"

"Okay." Arthur looked absolutely miserable and offered a smile unsuccessfully calculated to fool Gordon. "Well…tell him I stopped by, okay?"

"Fine." Gordon began to swing the door shut.

Arthur put his hand on the door. "Dad, wait! Could I use the loo before I go?"

Gordon tightened his mouth, and his sigh hissed through his nose. "Fine," he said again. "Just make it quick. I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through tonight." He closed the door behind Arthur, gestured wearily toward the loo, and went back into the library, sitting behind his desk and returning to his papers.

Yesterday, he'd increased the amount of both his and Martin's life insurance policy, and took out an additional kidnap insurance policy for both of them, telling the agent he'd just received a threat. The policy had taken effect immediately after paying a hefty fee, but the payout would be well worth it. His timing was good; even if forensics determined that Martin had been killed immediately following the phone call, it would still be well after he'd initiated the policy. Once the police found Martin…or Martin's body, at least, his financial worries would be over. He supposed he owed Martin for that. But in the meantime, there was an ocean of paperwork to get through.

Arthur appeared in the doorway, hovering uncertainly. The library had always been off-limits and amazingly, the lesson seemed to have penetrated his thick skull. "Thanks, Dad. I'm off, I guess." He strolled in and reverently touched the brass sextant on Gordon's desk. 

Apparently the lesson hadn't penetrated after all. "Right. Sorry I can't chat, but I've loads of work, as you can see."

"Okay. Don't forget to tell Martin I stopped by, all right? I guess he just forgot." Arthur backed away.

"I guess so. Oh, Arthur, for God's sake!" Arthur's coat had caught the edge of some papers and swept them off the desk.

"Sorry, Dad. I've got them." Arthur knelt and gathered the scattered sheets up slowly.

"Come on, chop-chop," Gordon snapped, and held his hand out. Arthur glanced down at the papers, then handed them over. "You can see yourself out, can't you?"

"'Course I can." Arthur's smile shone out again. "Hey, Dad, I've got that Spitfire all set up. You should come and see it, it's brilliant."

"Spitfire?" Gordon frowned. "I haven't got time, Arthur." He sighed. Martin was always chiding him about spending more time with his son, but his son was a colossal disappointment, and if Carolyn hadn't been the faithful sort, he'd wonder how someone so utterly lacking in brains could have possibly managed to be the fruit of his loins. "Maybe some other time. A few weeks, perhaps."

"Great! Oh, Mum says hi."

Gordon snorted. "I'm sure."

"Well, not hi exactly, but she did mention you."

Of that at least there was no doubt. Gordon had managed through a series of cleverly arranged if not quite entirely legal manoeuvres to severely limit her maintenance payouts, and she'd likely been cursing him ever since. It didn't seem to make a difference in Arthur's affections, however, not that he was desperate for Arthur's affections. "Give her my best. Good night, Arthur."

"'Bye, Dad." Arthur gave a shy little wave, and then mercifully was gone.

Gordon waited to hear the door close, then picked up his mobile again. He took a deep breath and dialed 999. 

A colourless woman's voice answered. "Emergency services, which service do you need?"

"Police. Quickly." Gordon waited, and when the police answered, he took another deep breath. "Yes, I have an emergency. My husband has been abducted."

 

*

 

Martin woke and trudged upstairs to the loo. He thought about showering immediately and decided against it. He was exhausted; he'd spent the night tossing and turning, examining Gordon's betrayal from every angle and getting steadily more depressed. It was probably a terrible idea, but he couldn't keep from worrying at it, wondering if there was something he could have done to make Gordon more sympathetically disposed toward him, wondering when it was that Gordon had decided he wasn't worth saving, wondering how long Gordon's contempt had been building, and why he hadn't said anything. Martin would have found a job gladly, paid his own way, but Gordon had insisted…if he didn't love Martin, why hadn't he said something?

He washed his face, looking at the unkind reflection of his pale complexion, reddened eyes, patchy stubble, and corkscrewed hair. Couldn’t really blame Gordon for not wanting to pay a million quid to get him back. He was still borrowing the bathrobe Douglas had loaned him – it was comfortable and smelled good, like the cologne Douglas wore, something cedar-y and expensive-smelling, but warm and cosy too. It seemed as if Douglas was still asleep, so Martin shuffled into the kitchen and found a big tin of porridge. He got it started and rummaged some tea from a cupboard and made a generous mug to drink as he waited for the porridge to cook, leaning against the door and watching some little birds taking their morning swim in a pretty birdbath in the back garden.

"Morning." Douglas came in, belting his dressing gown and yawning widely.

"Morning," Martin said. "I started some porridge. There's enough for both of us. Hope that's all right."

"Sounds lovely," Douglas said, yawning again. "Sorry. Rough night."

"You too?"

A crooked smile crossed Douglas' face. "It'd be funny if it weren't so desperate. I think I got everything sorted in my head, though. Would you get the coffee from the freezer? I don't think tea's quite going to be enough this morning. I'm going to need a couple of espressos if I'm to have any motivation at all. I'll get the paper." He turned and went down the hall.

Martin opened the freezer and found the coffee. He opened it and took a deep sniff. Nice. Maybe coffee _was_ a better idea than tea.

The front door closed, but Douglas didn't reappear. Martin got milk from the fridge and looked for the sugar in two cupboards without success. "Douglas? Where do you keep the sugar?"

"Dear _God_."

Martin frowned and peered down the hall. Douglas came toward him holding the newspaper, his face paper-white. "Goodness gracious – what on earth's the matter?"

Wordlessly, Douglas held out the paper.

Martin took it, seeing the _Fitton Voice_ banner and unfolding it. He started in surprise at the sight of his own picture and the headline.

**KIDNAP TERROR  
Martin Crieff, Partner Of Gordon Shappey, Feared Dead**

 

*


	9. Chapter 9

*

 

It was still fairly early in the morning and he hadn't had the best night's sleep, so it was perhaps not inexcusable for Douglas to gape stupidly at the paper as if he expected it would start talking and explaining things to him, not that he needed anyone to explain exactly how he'd meticulously and thoroughly ruined his own life. And it was perhaps not inexcusable that Douglas, a man so blessed by the gods of fortune that he'd never even received so much as a speeding ticket, was utterly felled when bad luck, self-imposed to be sure, happened to him.

So he staggered to a chair and sat, leaving Martin holding the paper and reading the story in a murmur. He'd collect himself in a minute. Just a minute.

Martin sat at the table. "'Shappey reported that Crieff never returned from a trip to purchase wine from Doonan's Newsagent and Off-Licence on Grantham Street, an habitual errand for the couple. Police speculate that Crieff's abductors had been stalking him for weeks in order to establish a pattern and make the kidnap more efficient.'" Martin looked up at Douglas.

Douglas shook his head and lifted a hand. Not entirely untrue.

"'Days later, Shappey received a call from a private mobile demanding ten million pounds in ransom.'" Martin paused. "Ten million? You asked for _one_ million."

The haze in Douglas' head was beginning to clear. "That's right. Perhaps it's a typographical error. Or bad reportage. It wasn't days later that I called, it was the same night. Journalism is a disgrace nowadays."

Martin frowned. "Maybe." He went back to the story. "'Despite his pleas for Crieff's safe return and his assurances that he would pay the ransom, the abductors threatened to kill their victim if Shappey failed to raise the money in the time specified or contacted the police. Shappey's efforts to obtain the full amount by the deadline were unsuccessful, and in desperation he phoned the police.'" 

For lack of anything better to do, Douglas got up and stirred the porridge. "So. Bad reportage or Gordon's given an ever so slightly different account of things to make himself look better."

"I'm sure that's not the case." Martin's face glowed, and optimism shone in his eyes. "He…I was wrong about him last night. I thought that he wouldn't…that he didn't want me back."

The hope in Martin's face was so earnest and fragile Douglas didn't possess the executioner's heart it would have taken to deliver a scathing retort, but he couldn't help thinking blackly just the same: _When has Gordon Shappey ever acted in anyone's interest but his own?_ The essential facts hadn't changed – Gordon had been asked (not very nicely, true) for a million pounds, an entirely reasonable sum knowing Gordon, and had flatly refused to pay, using the old chestnut of not negotiating with terrorists, as if the ghost of Maggie Thatcher were standing behind him in big hair and sensible shoes, prodding him with one persistent and bony finger.

Martin kept reading, but Douglas no longer heard him. Quite suddenly (talking of iron), the reality of Douglas' situation descended upon him like an anvil dropped from a ten-storey building. The police were investigating now. He let the spoon drop into the pot with a clatter. Porridge splashed upward, dotting the range top.

The noise stopped Martin mid-sentence. "What is it?"

"I've got to get out of here." Douglas began looking round the kitchen. "I've got to go."

"Now?"

"Yes, now." Douglas headed for the stairs and took them two at a time, adrenaline thundering through his system. He went into the bedroom and grabbed the suitcase he'd packed the day before and threw it on his bed. He'd packed for Ibiza. Summer in Ibiza…maybe Tangier was a better idea. People seemed to disappear more successfully in Tangier. The milieu was decidedly less formal, at least in the circles in which he planned to move; he wouldn't need the grey pinstripe, but the blue summer-weight…and a couple of blazers, the tan silk suit, that would breathe nicely, the lighter cotton shirts, brighter ties…the tuxedo? No, he didn't expect to be attending a lot of parties…socks, underpants –

"Douglas."

Startled, Douglas looked up. Martin hovered in the doorway uncertainly, looking a bit ridiculous in Douglas' grey dressing gown. The green silk dressing gown, he'd take that. Pyjamas? Would he need pyjamas in Tangier?

"I don't think you ought to go right now."

Douglas dropped a handful of ties onto his bed. He could be at the airport in an hour. Drive safely, that was key. It wouldn't be the thing to get stopped for speeding whilst attempting to flee the country. "Martin," he said with as much patience as he could muster, which admittedly wasn't much. "The police are now involved."

"What if I promised not to say anything? It's not as if they can force me to talk. I don't think the police waterboard kidnap victims. O-of course I'm not a hundred percent certain, but last time I checked, anyway." Martin gave a wan smile.

Wearily, Douglas sat on the bed. The adrenaline was draining, leaving him heavy and slow. "You're very generous and in all seriousness I'm truly touched, but I'm afraid you haven't thought things through. Not that I have either, believe me. But once a crime is reported, the police are busy not only trying to rescue the victim, but to catch the criminal and bring him to justice." Douglas' mouth twisted. "So he doesn't do it again, you see."

"Yes, but…well, you wouldn't, would you?"

"Certainly not, but that's hardly the point." Douglas gave Martin a real smile. "Honestly, you were so noisy and slippery during the actual kidnap that I considered giving it up then and there. Thank goodness I was persistent, eh?"

Martin chuckled and bit his lip. "You _did_ frighten me."

"Yes, apparently. I've never seen anyone faint from fear before."

"It wasn't fear!" Martin crossed his arms, scowling. "I've got a-an inner ear dysfunction."

Douglas lifted a brow. "Come again?"

Martin explained. "It's only when I get dizzy, and you were spinning me around. It's physiological, not emotional," he concluded.

"Can you fly with a condition like that?"

"Oh, yes. Believe me, I've checked. But getting back to the point – I wouldn't say anything, Douglas. Especially since you haven't actually got the ransom money."

"But they'll still want to apprehend me, Martin. Don't you see? Dear God, they've probably got forensics teams crawling all over the crime scene. Tyre prints, the bottle you dropped…." Douglas put his head in his hands and groaned.

Martin took one tentative step into the bedroom, then another. He wrung his hands for a moment, then crouched beside the bed and put a hand on Douglas' knee, gazing up at him earnestly. "All the more reason not to go, don't you think? If they _are_ looking for you, they might be watching the motorways, the airfields, every possible means of escape. It'll seem more suspicious if they catch you driving to the airport with a suitcase."

Douglas looked down at Martin's hand, gentle and warm on his knee, then into Martin's eyes, still gleaming with optimism, but with what Douglas fancied was compassion. Compassion for his kidnapper. Poor bugger. And yet, Douglas felt a surprising surge of respect for Martin's level-headedness. "I suppose you're right," he said at last, and looked down at Martin's hand again.

Shyly, Martin withdrew the hand, to Douglas' faint disappointment. "Sorry. I-I think you should just go about your business, and act as though everything's perfectly normal. A dozen cars probably drove through that alleyway since Saturday night. You can arrange to take me somewhere that's not remotely connected with you, and I'll tell the police I was blindfolded the entire time and never saw your face. 'Til then, try not to panic." Martin smiled ruefully. "I should take my own advice once in a while. I should have trusted Gordon."

Douglas managed not to comment on that last. "Am I to understand that you find my company less than horrifying?" he inquired.

Twin spots of pink appeared on Martin's cheeks, and he stared down at the floor as if gems were embedded in its surface. "I told you, it wasn't the worst."

Unexpected warmth blossomed in Douglas' chest. "That dressing gown's far too large for you."

"I'll shower and change."

"Hm. Meantime, I'll work out a plan. How would you like to do some CPL revising while we wait for cover of darkness?"

A broad grin, awkward and endearing, spread across Martin's mouth. "I'd love that."

"You take first bath, and I'll get breakfast ready, and we'll hit the books."

He wasn't entirely soothed. And he didn't trust Gordon's motives, whatever they might have been. And it wasn't that he didn't want to flee, for he most decidedly _did_ want to flee.

But a few more hours in Martin's company surely wouldn't hurt.

 

*

 

He was doing his level best, but despite Martin's eagerness and really rather engaging if somewhat nervous and twitchy personality, Douglas couldn't keep his mind on revising. He kept envisioning a squadron of police cars roaring up to the house and breaking in wearing riot gear, then tear-gassing him and dragging him away in handcuffs. He glanced at Martin's face, and it was even brighter and happier than when he realised Gordon had alerted the police. A little arrow of chagrin lodged itself in Douglas' heart, and he wondered ruefully just when it had become crucial to keep from disappointing Martin Crieff.

Gamely, he soldiered on. "Of what value is the Weather Depiction Chart to the pilot?"

Martin nodded, brimming with confidence. "The Weather Depiction Chart aids in determining general weather conditions on which to base flight planning."

"Correct."

"Ask me something hard," Martin said with a grin.

"All right. Let's see…here's a multiple choice question. First, have a look at this chart." Douglas slid a transparency across the table. "Now, determine the pressure altitude at an airport that is 1386 feet MSL with an altimeter setting of 29.97. Is the answer: A) 1341 feet MSL, B) 1562 feet MSL, or C) 1451 feet MSL?"

"The answer is A – 1341 feet MSL."

Douglas stared at Martin in bemusement. "Martin, that's twenty for twenty. Every single question. You appear to be a walking, talking OED of flight protocol. How on earth could you have possibly failed the CPL?"

Martin heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers on the transparency. "Well, that's the problem. I'm in top form when it comes to practise quizzing, but when the actual test rolls round, I freeze up. It's happened all three times – I was completely prepared, I knew the answers backward and forward. Then I actually got into the testing room and the answers just evaporated. Vanished completely, as if I'd never done a single moment of revising. I just sat there, sweating and staring at the exam, jotting an answer here and there, but mostly staring. It's ridiculous, I know it's ridiculous, but there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it." He shook his head unhappily.

Douglas was at a loss. He'd never had a problem with testing and had no idea how to solve Martin's dilemma. "I expect that must be frustrating."

" _Frustrating_ isn't the word. Maddening is more like it. Three times it's happened now, and God only knows how many thousands of pounds down the drain. Gordon was absolutely livid the last time it happened. Not that I blame him. It's awful to see all that money spent and ultimately wasted."

Martin had made a pot of tea, and Douglas poured the last of it out, dividing it between them. "Look, I don't mean to pry, but surely you're not incapable of – that is, couldn't you get a job? Pay for the test yourself?"

It took Martin a few moments to answer. He let his gaze slide away from Douglas' and stirred milk into his tea, chopping at the sugar with his spoon. A blush crawled up his neck and stained his cheeks bright pink. "Gordon doesn't like me to…he'd rather I didn't work." He chopped harder. "He explained it to me. He said it didn't look quite right, that it would seem as if he wasn't willing to support me."

Douglas lifted a brow. "And is that what you want? To be supported?"

"You don't understand," Martin protested. "He's a very public figure, and I…well, I'm not all that impressive, I know that. I didn't go to posh schools or anything, and before I met Gordon I was doing removals to make ends meet. What sort of job could I get that wouldn't make Gordon look a bit foolish?"

"I rather think it matters more how you feel than how Gordon looks."

Martin scowled. "You don't understand," he repeated. 

"I think I do. Gordon won't let you work a job he perceives to be beneath him, and you let him walk all over you." Douglas found himself getting angry. "Just like he does with everyone. Even me, and I don't consider myself to be the doormat sort."

"Implying that I am."

_Aren't you?_ Douglas almost snapped back. But then he caught a glimpse of Martin's face, utterly woebegone, and the downcast slump of his shoulders. _There you go again,_ he berated himself. _Kick the man when he's down. As if he doesn't know what a snake Gordon is._ "I'm sorry, Martin," he said gently. "I didn't mean to imply that."

"I don't care," Martin muttered. He sniffled, then wiped his nose with the paper napkin and stuffed it in his pocket. "It was silly, you know. I'd spend all day reading or watching documentaries – on aeroplanes and flying, mostly." He smiled self-consciously. "And sometimes I'd try to chat with the cook or the cleaning ladies, but I could tell they just wanted me out of their hair so they could get on with their work. Then Gordon would come home and want to know what I'd done with my day, and if I answered honestly, he'd get annoyed. Once I asked him why he was so impatient with me if he didn't want me working, and he –" The blush grew deeper. "Doesn't matter. Anyhow, eventually he stopped asking."

Douglas watched Martin carefully, and fleeting memories of Gordon and Martin fluttered through some subconscious filter in his head like the pages of a child's picture-book. Gordon's disdainful attitude, treating Martin like a piece of cumbersome baggage. The young men when Martin wasn't around. The dark glasses Martin, never the personification of cool, had sometimes worn on cloudy days or in the evening. Little pieces of conversation, long-past and recent, began to fit themselves together, threading around Martin's defenses of Gordon's behaviour, his reactions to Gordon's treachery, the look on his face. "For someone who's supposed to cherish his partner, he's not very kind to you, Martin."

"You don't know him very well, that's all."

"I've known him for fifteen years, and I've got eyes in my head," Douglas replied, more tartly than he'd intended. He sighed; he couldn't seem to put a foot right where Martin was concerned sometimes.

"He's just…temperamental, that's all. You don't know him the way I do."

Averting his eyes, Douglas began tidying the pile of study materials and glancing at Martin surreptitiously at intervals. Martin sat unmoving, staring into the middle distance, toying with his teaspoon. Douglas slid the last transparency into its folder. "Why didn't you leave him?"

Martin shook his head, tight-lipped.

"I'm not blaming you. I'm just curious."

"I couldn't," Martin said in a near-whisper. "I didn't have the money. Still don't. And I don't have any friends who'd…and my family, they'd just laugh at me. And he…he'd come after me, I mean find me. He can't be alone. He's…he's more insecure than you'd think."

_Very insecure, if trampling and brutalizing you is the most effective way to get you to stay with him._ "You could have called the police, social services. They'd have helped you. You could have received maintenance."

"He doesn't beat me." Martin's eyes darted to one side. "As for the rest, it's n-not anything you could prove."

Pity and anger surged in Douglas' middle and collided, and he spoke before he had a chance to quash the impulse. "Why don't you come with me?" _Oh, dear GOD. Have you completely gone round the bloody twist, Richardson?_

Martin gaped. "Sorry?"

Douglas stared back in dismay, then shrugged mentally. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "Come with me. I'll help you get set up, or you could just stay with me until you found a job and somewhere to live. You don't have to depend on Gordon, Martin. Not anymore."

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed, and a little crinkle appeared at the top of his nose. "I…I think that's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever offered to do for me."

Embarrassed, Douglas cleared his throat. "I know it's a bit sudden. After all, we hardly know each other." That got a smile from Martin. "It was sincerely meant, though. For what it's worth," he added softly.

"You're probably not going to believe this, but it's worth a lot," Martin said. "I…I can't, though. Gordon loves me, he really does. And I love him." 

_Why don't I believe you? Maybe because you don't sound entirely convinced of either sentiment._ He tried one more time. "Martin, just think about this. He waited until _after_ the missed ransom drop to report the kidnap to the police. If he'd reported it before, we'd have heard about it. Why would he wait? Doesn't speak very well of him, does it?"

"He was trying to get the cash together."

"Martin, he's worth millions. Come on."

Martin shook his head stubbornly. "I can't believe he'd be so cold."

"You don't want to, though I cannot for the life of me fathom why."

"Look, Douglas. I know you hate him. I know he cheated you out of your pension, and I know that's terrible. And maybe he hasn't been perfect, but he's trying his best to get me back. That must mean something, mustn't it?" Martin's voice was pleading. "I understand that you despise him, but please…please don't try to make me despise him too. I can't. He's my husband."

Douglas was more disappointed than he'd been for a long, long time, and he almost laughed. Whilst researching kidnapping on the internet (he had to take his laptop along as well), he'd run across the term 'Lima Syndrome' which was the counterpart of Stockholm Syndrome – but in Lima Syndrome it was the kidnapper who developed an attachment to the captive. Well, he wouldn't be Douglas Richardson if he wasn't the epicentre of the universe. He laid his hands flat on the table. "Very well. I shan't say another word against him. But I have to leave – I've got to get out now, while I still have time."

Martin nodded slowly. "Okay." He smiled at Douglas. "Thank you, Douglas. For the offer. I know you meant well."

The disappointment swelled. "I've got a couple of steaks in the freezer. Shall we have a send-off dinner? For both of us."

"All right." Martin got up and went to the freezer. "I'll start thawing them if you like."

"Thank you." _Tempting fate by delaying your departure, aren't you?_ Douglas watched Martin sorting through frozen food, and all at once it hit him.

_Oh, you stupid, stupid, stupid man. You're falling for him._

He groaned, but so quietly that Martin couldn't hear him.

 

*

 

The steaks were tender and succulent, kissed with salt and pepper and dabbed with the faintest whisper of beurre blanc. The sautéed green beans amandine were crisp and bright, the mashed potatoes creamy perfection. There hadn't been time to produce much in the way of pudding, but Douglas had managed a quick custard that melted on the tongue and, paired with espresso, ended things nicely.

More impressive than the meal preparation, Douglas had managed to make it through dinner without too many speculative glances at Martin. None of this beyond-ridiculous affair was in the least familiar to Douglas, so he was flying blind, so to speak, but even so, the way in which it had all happened! Douglas' usual modus operandi was physical attraction, almost always instant and mutual, followed by some witty banter – not always necessary on the other person's part, but invariable with Douglas, then a meal, or coffee, then a satisfying romp at someone's house, or a hotel. It was a comfortable routine, though Douglas wouldn't have minded changing it up now and then. This was far more change than he'd bargained for. _Lima Syndrome indeed. You horse's arse._

Well, there was nothing for it now. Douglas was practically out the door, and Martin would soon be reunited with his horrible, abusive husband. Odd, wasn't it, that Douglas felt the impulse to rescue Martin. But you couldn't rescue someone you'd abducted. It didn't work that way.

There had been one, perhaps two other missed opportunities in Douglas' life. This would be an uneven three, that was all. He smiled at Martin as Martin scraped the inside of his custard cup. "Sweet tooth?"

"God, yes," Martin mumbled, then swallowed and licked his lips. "Delicious."

Douglas felt a small inappropriate stirring at the sight of Martin's tongue touching his lips. "I'm flattered," he said drily.

"Everything was fantastic, really," Martin said. He got up, stifling a yawn. "I'll help you with the dishes."

"All right." Douglas stayed in his seat – necessary, for the next few moments. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind turning the television on. Background noise."

"Okay." Martin went into the study and switched on the television, turning the sound up from a dull murmur to the loud babbling of some mindless comedy. 

Martin came back in and began clearing plates, but it was a few moments before Douglas felt steady enough to stand. He filled the sink and began scrubbing; Martin had found a towel and stood ready to dry, quiet as the telly blared noisy adverts for Hiscox, Pedigree dog yummies, Jaguar, and Stowford Press. Then a brief silence before the news theme, and the voice of a newsreader, the same slightly breathless hurrah-there's-been-a-disaster voice they all used.

"Startling development today in the case of the abduction of Martin Crieff."

Douglas and Martin stared at each other for a moment, then raced into the study. The telly was showing a picture of Martin's face with the word **CONSPIRACY?** plastered over it in huge red letters.

"Could Gordon Shappey have engineered the abduction and murder of his own husband? That's the question many people are asking themselves tonight after surprising revelations." The newsreader, a pretty brunette with lots of teeth, seemed to beckon to the camera. "David Carstairs reports."

The camera switched to a tall handsome fellow with wavy hair standing outside Gordon's house, just off the property. "Melinda, I'm standing outside the home of Gordon Shappey, the prominent Fitton entrepreneur who _claims_ his partner Martin Crieff was abducted by a person or persons demanding _ten million pounds_ in ransom money."

_Another word stressor_ , Douglas noted as Carstairs repeated the details of the kidnap.

"But this afternoon, reporters discovered a discrepancy in Shappey's account when, in an attempt to gain insight into the case, they spoke to Shappey's son, Arthur Shappey."

"Insight?" Douglas murmured. Arthur was a sweet fellow, but not the brightest of bulbs. Martin glanced at Douglas uneasily.

The video switched to Arthur, standing in the doorway of his mother's house, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His mouth was moving, but no sound was emerging as Carstairs was still jabbering away. Finally, the audio feed switched to Arthur. "What really surprised me was that night my dad said that Martin had gone out with friends. Which was confusing, because he said they'd picked Martin up, and I don't think Martin would get in a strange car. With strangers." The audio cut out, and there were a few brief seconds of Arthur nattering on silently until the video returned to wavy-haired Carstairs.

"This discrepancy in Shappey's story has generated a great deal of controversy and speculation. Why would Shappey deliberately misinform his own son? Is Gordon Shappey concealing some dark and possibly violent secret behind the doors of his palatial home? We've attempted to contact Mr. Shappey, but he's either not home, or refusing to come to the door. We'll bring you more news as events warrant. Melinda?"

"Thank you, David." Melinda gleamed at the camera. "Tonight we're talking with our crime expert, Rob Cranford, who offers us unique insight into the criminal mind. Rob, what are the implications of the discrepancy in Mr. Shappey's account?"

Douglas didn't hear Rob Cranford's reply; he turned to Martin and was about to speak to him – to say what, God only knew – but Martin pivoted on his heel and left the room without a word.

 

*


	10. Chapter 10

*

 

The clamour of television noise reverberated far too loudly in Martin's head. He propelled himself out of the lounge, through the narrow corridor, and into Douglas' kitchen. He opened the back door, and a cool breeze wafted over his skin, the first breeze he'd felt in nearly a week. Pulling in a deep breath, he sat abruptly on the squat stairs leading to the back garden.

_Stupid. You're so stupid._

Douglas had been right after all. Gordon had waited until after the imposed ransom deadline to phone the police. 

Deadline, funny word.

He'd waited for Douglas to kill Martin before phoning.

Martin put his head in his hands, blinking hot, dry eyes. Gordon hadn't engineered the kidnap, obviously, and Arthur's inadvertent, innocent (God bless him) revelation had certainly thrown some sort of spanner into Gordon's works. But why hadn't Gordon told Arthur the truth? He scarcely tolerated Arthur at the best of times and gave him short shrift almost constantly, but out-and-out lying was a bit odd. Was it because he didn't want to tell Arthur that his husband had been murdered? And did Gordon actually want Martin dead? God knew that their relationship hadn't been ideal, and certainly physical and mental domination was the norm in the Shappey-Crieff household, but _dead_ \- that was a whole different kettle of fish.

A curious numbness settled into his bones. Of all the times he'd wept during this grim series of events, he'd have thought that the realisation of Gordon's indifference to his fate, if not his outright malice, would have been the final straw and reduced him to tears, but he felt no urge to weep. Perhaps it would hit him harder at some point later on.

_Dead. Either he wants me dead, or he doesn't care if I die._ One or the other was certainly true, and there was no point any longer in entertaining fruitless hopes. 

It wasn't an easy thing to accept. Might never be.

He sat on the steps, his arms wrapped round his knees, and breathed in the cooling dusk air and listened to the first timid chirping of nocturnal birds and insects. Further away, he heard the distinctive metallic rattle of an empty food tin and the delighted shrieking of a group of kids playing tin can tolly. Next door, reggae floated scratchily from an open window, along with the sound of a woman singing along, off-key but with obvious enjoyment. A faint fragrance of smoke and cooking meat drifted past his nose; someone was barbecuing steak. It smelled lovely, but probably it wasn't as good as Douglas' cooking. 

Shadows lengthened and finally blended into the evening. Martin heard a man calling for Eleanor and Issie to come inside and wash their hands, for God's sake, didn't they know what time it was? Lights came on here and there, the smell of barbecue diminished, the kids went home, the insects got a bit louder, Bob Marley segued a little incongruously into New Order, and as Martin listened to the growing peace of evening, he perceived that he felt better. Not a lot better, just a bit, but still – how peculiar.

Getting chilly and lacking many other options, he got to his feet and went inside. Douglas was just finishing up, putting the little custard cups away, a flowered tea towel slung over his shoulder. He glanced at Martin, said nothing for a moment, then closed the cupboard door. "Are you all right?"

Good question. Was he? Martin assessed himself carefully, the way he would if he'd tripped and face-planted in a car park or something, checking for assorted aches and pains. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." He sat at the kitchen table. "I expect you thought I'd run off."

"I'm an overconfident kidnapper. I suspected you hadn't."

"I could have," Martin grumbled.

"That's true. In any case, I didn't think of it until about fifteen minutes had passed. That would have been enough time for you to go next door and phone the police." Douglas cleared his throat delicately. "Given the furor over your disappearance, I'm sure they'd have arrived in short order. Also, I saw you sitting on the steps." He hung the damp towel on a hook. "I could do with a cup of tea. You?"

"Yes, please."

Martin watched Douglas prepare the tea, a ritual that had always seemed to fill Gordon with irritation and impatience (the result of which was that he never drank tea unless Martin or the cook made it), but Douglas seemed to enjoy the process. He moved with a sort of careless grace, as if he were used to people watching him and didn't mind it at all. He'd moved the same way during his walk-throughs, when Martin had had the opportunity to observe him, wistfully and a little enviously. Was that natural, or was it an acquired demeanour?

Without being terribly obvious about it – he hoped – Martin scrutinised Douglas carefully. For the first time, he took in the particulars of Douglas' looks. Handsome, with thick hair and large, surprisingly limpid eyes. Eyebrows that arched in disbelief or wry humour. Strong, straight nose. Body stocky, and carried with authority, as if slimmer people were sadly lacking in substance. Large, capable hands. And his voice, of course – deep, silky, perfect elocution, putting the Wokingham accent Martin had so desperately tried to shed very much in the shade.

Unbidden, Martin's gaze wandered to the front of Douglas' trousers. 

"Milk or lemon?"

"What?" Martin wrenched his gaze from its inappropriate target and met Douglas' eyes, then looked away, mortified. Had Douglas known where Martin – oh, for goodness' sake! "Sorry. Er – milk, please."

"Right." Douglas set a large pottery mug in front of Martin, along with the sugar bowl, and rummaged the milk out of the fridge. "Do you want a chocolate biscuit?"

"No, thanks. The tea's fine." Martin sipped carefully. "Mm. Good. Thank you, Douglas."

"Not at all." Douglas sat at the table, cradling his own mug. His face was a bit red, and he stared down into his tea as if it held vast and innumerable secrets. Occasionally he sipped, but he stayed silent. The only sound in the room was the intermittent clunk of pottery on polished wood, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Martin took a deep breath. "Thank you."

"You already said that." Douglas' left eyebrow shot up.

"No, I mean – thank you for earlier. For being gentle with me. Oh, God. I mean…."

Douglas' brow rose higher. "Yes?"

"About Gordon. He doesn't want me back. That's what you were trying to tell me earlier, but I didn't twig." _More that I wasn't listening, really. The way I haven't been listening to Carolyn, or to Arthur, or to anyone who knows what Gordon is really like. I'm such a fool._

"I'm sorry, Martin."

Martin snorted a little. "So am I." He covered his eyes with his hand.

"Martin –"

"Don't worry, I'm not about to collapse into tears," Martin said, determinedly lifting his mug and taking a gulp of tea. "I've done enough of that the past few days, God knows."

"You've certainly had cause," Douglas said, shifting a bit in his chair. "Martin, look. This is probably ill-timed and inappropriate, and I feel a bit naff for even giving voice to it, but I am genuinely sorry about all this. I've spent the last few days silently bemoaning the wreckage of my life without giving a proper thought about the fact that I was destroying your life as well. I hope you can forgive me someday. You didn't ask for any of this."

"No," Martin said with a sigh. "I didn't, but maybe it's all for the best."

"You don't have to say that to make me feel better, I assure you."

"It's not just that," Martin said. "He's a snake. I know that. I suppose I've always known, one way or another, but for whatever reason it seemed easier to ignore it. I mean, God knows how long I'd have gone on living with him and letting him t-treat me badly and excusing him over and over. I don't know if I can exactly thank you for the wake-up call, but I'm not sorry." He frowned and took another gulp of sweet milky tea. "No. No," he said, more firmly, bravado giving way to conviction. "I'm not sorry. And I'm not angry with you."

Douglas bowed his head briefly. "That's very generous of you, Martin. Thank you. What will you do now?"

"What will _you_ do?" Martin countered. "Out of curiosity."

A silent moment passed as Douglas took a drink of tea and rotated the mug in his hands. "Having made my bed, I shall have to lie in it, lumps notwithstanding," he said at last. "Despite the current investigation into Gordon's affairs, the police will most likely be able to determine his innocence in short order. In this instance, at least. So: Spain, perhaps, or Morocco, or Tunisia. I find the climate agreeable and it shouldn't be too difficult to find a job. After that…." One shoulder lifted in a nonchalance that Martin, though he didn't know Douglas well, recognised as affectation. "Who knows? It's a wide world, and I consider myself resourceful. My daughter will get my house, I think, even if I'm considered a fugitive from justice. I might have time to look into that." He took another sip and set the mug down. "Your turn."

"I'll go home for a bit," Martin said, shaking his head when Douglas gave him a sceptical look. "Not for good or anything – just long enough to pack up my stuff. I've got some nice things, jewellery and watches and so on – I can pawn them, get a room somewhere, and find a job. And I'll keep studying for the CPL. If I scrimp and save, I can try taking it again in a year or so."

"Sounds as if you've thought this through."

"I haven't, actually," Martin said. "Funny, though, it feels right." As he spoke the words, he felt the truth of them; more, he felt the unusual pleasure and power of being the captain of his own fate. God, how long had it been since he'd made a decision for himself, that a fairly simple scheme seemed utterly momentous?

"You can keep the books, if you'd like," Douglas offered.

Martin smiled. "Thanks, I will, if you don't mind. I don't want to stay h – at Gordon's house any longer than absolutely necessary."

"Right. There it is." Douglas placed both palms flat on the table. "Now that both our lives have been neatly ordered, I suggest we get some sleep. We've both got busy days ahead of us. I've got to get my car to an acquaintance to sell, and you've got the rest of your life to plan." He smiled at Martin, but his eyes were somewhat wistful. "What do you say?"

Oddly, Martin felt a little wistful himself. Now that he wasn't tied up and terrified, and that he was planning a new direction in life (in itself a terrifying thing, but he wouldn't think about that now. And Gordon didn't want him back anyway) all this was beginning to seem less like a nightmare and more like an adventure. It was bloody bizarre, but he would miss Douglas after all this. Maybe Martin should suggest that they correspond? No, that would be too weird.

"Okay," Martin said. His reply felt inadequate, but he couldn't think what else to say. "Thanks again for the books." He moved toward the basement door.

"Martin," Douglas said, in that smooth, deep voice, "please use the guest room tonight. It's…it's too damp downstairs."

Martin rested his hand on the doorknob. "It's all right," he said softly. "I don't mind."

"It's much nicer. No damp. And…." Douglas coloured and cleared his throat. "I'm trusting you not to run away, a rather magnanimous gesture on my part, I think. You wouldn't let me down?"

Martin felt a smile, a genuine, happy smile stretch his mouth. _Of course you're happy. You'll finally be rid of Gordon and in charge of your own life again._ "No. I wouldn't dare."

 

*

 

The guest bedroom _was_ nice: silvery-grey damask walls, pretty dark furniture, long billowy curtains the colour of ripe wheat. It smelled good and was neat as a pin. Douglas turned the bedclothes down and switched on the lamp that sat on the bedside table. "There's an alarm clock," Douglas said, gesturing to it, "or I can wake you. I should warn you the clock's a bit unreliable – can't imagine why I haven't binned it yet."

"You can wake me," Martin said. He set down the stack of books he'd been carrying under one arm and patted it. "I'm going to read a bit before bed."

"Very well," Douglas replied. "Eight o'clock? We'll have breakfast and then get things moving."

"All right." In jeans and a pale blue Oxford-cloth shirt, Douglas was less imposing than he was in his uniform, but still attractive. Odd; deciding to leave Gordon (not that the decision hadn't been pre-empted) had seemed to free Martin up to find other men attractive. Odder still that he hadn't noticed before – or perhaps he _had_ noticed and simply hadn't permitted himself to recognise it. Gordon would have given him an earful for even mentioning that someone else was good-looking. "Thank you."

"Not at all." Douglas lingered beside the bed for a moment. "I'll say good night, then." 

"Good night," Martin echoed, and watched Douglas walk to the door. "Douglas?"

Douglas halted and turned on his heel. "Yes?"

Martin scrambled to reply. He hadn't the least idea what he'd been about to say. "Er – sleep well."

A surprisingly gentle smile curved Douglas' mouth. "You too, Martin."

After Douglas left, Martin sank to the bed. He opened _Flying Freestyle: An RAF Fast Jet Pilot's Story_ , but the words blurred together on the page. He couldn't focus to save his life.

_You're unmoored, that's all. You've come to some unpleasant realisations and decided to make your own way in the world, and it's scary, and Douglas Richardson has gone from being your kidnapper to being a sympathetic ear, crazy as that sounds. It's a shock to the system._

He picked up the lapel of Douglas' robe, hanging on his scrawny body, and touched it to his nose, inhaling its scent.

 

*

 

A quick, sharp rap on the door woke Martin from a deep and dreamless slumber. As he opened his eyes, the door opened, and Douglas came in, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, his hair dishevelled, and looking a bit frazzled. He glanced over his shoulder, then closed the door behind him.

"Martin, stay in bed for a bit, all right?" Douglas spoke softly, and with considerable urgency.

Adrenalin and confusion surged in Martin's veins. He sat up and tossed the bedclothes aside, forgetting he wore only his underpants. "Police?"

"What? No, no, it's Sophie. My daughter. She'd told me she was popping round today, but it totally slipped my mind in all the…." Douglas made a vague gesture with one hand. "Hullaballoo. Will you stay up here for a little while? Please?"

Martin nodded and rubbed sleep from one eye. "Of course." Suddenly conscious that he was mostly naked in front of Douglas, he slid back into bed and pulled up the sheet and duvet. Douglas seemed aware of it too; he averted his eyes and his cheeks were a bit pink, but that might have been anxiety. "Thanks for letting me stay in here," Martin said hastily. "You were right, it's nice."

"Good. I'm glad you slept well. That is, I hope you slept well." Douglas blinked and drew a short, huffing breath. "I'd better get back downstairs."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Martin offered. Douglas seemed unusually flustered. "She doesn't know anything. And…well, it's nice that you get to see her again."

"Yes," Douglas said reflectively. "Yes, that's true." He turned toward the door, glanced back at Martin, and went out.

Martin listened to Douglas' fading footfalls, then slipped on Douglas' dressing gown and went to the door. He put his ear against it, but heard only murmurs. 

_None of your business. Besides, people who eavesdrop always hear something they wish they hadn't._

He opened the door a crack.

"…breakfast, darling?"

"Oh, lovely. Eggs Benedict?"

"I'm too lazy to manage the sauce this morning. Would madam accept scrambled? An inadequate substitute, to be sure, but just as tasty, according to those in the know."

Sophie Richardson laughed, a vivid, sprightly chortling. "All right. Only if you've got bacon as well, though."

"Can do. Fetch the grapefruit juice from the fridge, would you?"

Martin opened the door, hoping it wouldn't creak – it didn't, thank goodness – and crept into the corridor, vaguely conscious that he needed to pee. Douglas and Sophie's voices carried quite easily, and Martin's curiosity outweighed his guilt by a generous measure.

"You're looking lovely, as usual," Douglas said.

"Oh, Daddy, you're sweet. Charity-shop dress, you know – I just modified it a little. I think it's as old as you are!"

"Oh, how flattering." Douglas sounded drily amused.

"You know what I mean. You're both holding up quite well, though, now that I think of it."

"The compliments just keep on coming, don't they? Make yourself useful, impertinent child, and get the butter out."

Father and daughter bantered a while as the delicious smells of bacon, eggs, and toast floated past Martin's nose, provoking his stomach into a rumble. He heard them sitting down to breakfast, and the clink of cutlery against porcelain, and their lively conversation, and couldn't help a small jab of envy, not at the parent-child relationship, which was nice – certainly nicer than Gordon's relationship with Arthur; where Gordon was dismissive and contemptuous, Douglas was engaged and encouraging – but at the easy camaraderie they shared, and the warmth in Douglas' voice as he spoke to his daughter, asked her questions. What made it slightly worse was that he _had_ felt Douglas' attention and interest and even kindness, beyond the initial fright, obviously, but it was fated to be short-lived. It was nice while it lasted, though.

"Oh!" Sophie cried, with an accompanying clatter of flatware against plate. "I totally forgot, Daddy! Mr. Shappey's boyfriend! Can you believe?"

Martin froze and held his breath.

"Husband. Yes," Douglas replied gravely. "It's dreadful."

"Isn't it! Did you know him well?"

Douglas paused. "I can't say I know him _well_ , but we did scrape acquaintance."

Martin smiled despite his trepidation.

"I only saw him a few times. I thought he was awfully stuck up. Cute, but stuck up."

_Stuck up?_ Indignation burned in Martin's chest. _I'm not stuck up!_ 'Cute' was nice, though.

"Martin _Crieff_?" Douglas said, disbelief evident in his voice. "Goodness gracious, wherever did you get that idea? Are we talking about the same person?"

"Do you remember Christmas Eve last year?"

"I remember your mother receiving that ostentatious fur coat from her then-gentleman friend and flaunting it at my drinks party, along with the gentleman friend. I use the term 'gentleman' loosely, of course. There were bits of fox fluff in the air for days afterward. Beyond that, I can't say that I found it particularly memorable."

"Your car broke down, and I had to drive you to Fitton Airfield so you could fly Gordon and his boyfriend – sorry, husband – to Paris."

"Oh, yes. Right."

"Well, I saw him – Martin, right? – at the airfield, in a really nice suit and sunnies, and it was _snowing_. So conceited. Who does that? Besides that, he hardly spoke a word to me. Rude."

Martin flushed. He remembered last Christmas Eve very well indeed. Gordon had blacked his eye because they'd been at a party the evening before, and Martin had had the temerity to talk to a fellow he'd briefly dated. He remembered Sophie saying hello to him, and he'd muttered a hello and scurried onto the plane, trying to avoid anyone sharp enough to notice the bruising.

Douglas was silent for a moment. "I understand that Martin gets terrible headaches," he said at last. "I imagine that would explain the dark glasses, and the short shrift. He's actually quite nice once one gets to know him. Not that I know him well, of course."

Torn between equal lashings of shame and gratitude, Martin leant against the wall, hugging himself a little. His face burned, and though no-one was watching him, he longed to sink into the floor and disappear.

"Oh. That makes sense, I suppose. Is he on medication?"

"I'm not certain. Probably so," Douglas returned. 

"It would be awful if he had a headache right now, on top of being frightened and maybe abused and starved too. Poor thing." There was genuine sympathy in Sophie Richardson's voice; Martin found himself unexpectedly charmed. "I hope he's still alive. I know you said Mr. Shappey was a bit of a horse's arse, but it doesn't seem fair that his husband has to suffer for it."

"No, you're right," Douglas said. "It's not fair. Not fair at all."

"I don't suppose you have an angle on the whole thing. Nothing you could tell the police."

"I wish I did."

"Do you think Mr. Shappey arranged it himself? That's what everyone's saying now."

"I don't know," Douglas said. "It's always difficult to speculate about things like that. I didn't know them intimately, as a couple. Do you want more bacon, darling?"

"No, thanks. All right, one more rasher. I mean, who'd _do_ that to someone? Even worse if Mr. Shappey was in on it. The least he could have done was get a divorce. He didn't have to try to have Martin _killed_. God."

"Tea?" Douglas asked brightly.

"Ooh, yes."

The topic of conversation drifted to more trivial things, but Martin didn't register much of it. He had a lingering pain in his midsection that he recognised as emotional distress from a dozen confrontations with Gordon, and his jaw ached, as if he'd been clenching his teeth. He relaxed his jaw and realised he _had_ been clenching his teeth. When, he wondered, would he stop feeling awful about all this?

It didn't matter right now. He had to pee very badly; that mattered. He tiptoed into the loo, urinated, re-ordered his underwear, and flushed the toilet. It gurgled loudly as the water disappeared.

_Oh, BLOODY HELL._

Martin clamped both hands over his mouth as if he'd let out a yell, and closed his eyes in horror. He pushed the half-ajar loo door open in time to hear Sophie's voice, simultaneously accusing and delighted. "You've got a guest!" 

"No, it's the bloody toilet. Does that from time to time. Drives me round the bend."

"Oh, Daddy, come on. I wasn't born yesterday. Why didn't you invite her or him downstairs?"

_Him?_

"Really, darling, it's the plumbing. Go upstairs and take a look if you don't believe me." Douglas' voice was raised, and Martin took the cue. He dashed into the guest bedroom as quietly as he could, yanked up the bedclothes, and dropped to the floor, ready to wriggle underneath the bed if Sophie picked up Douglas' gauntlet.

"Oh, Daddy, I can be discreet too. I won't keep you, but you should have said something, really. Goodbye, whoever you are!" she called. "Hope we get to meet sometime!"

"Honestly, darling. I'll walk you out." 

Their voices faded away, and Martin cradled his head in his hands and groaned. _God, you're such an idiot. Douglas asks you to be quiet, and you proceed to make the loudest noise possible. Why didn't you just start tap-dancing on the bathroom tiles while you were at it? Stupid clot!_

He sat on the bed and waited for Douglas to return. He heard the door open and close, and a tread on the staircase, but stayed put, too ashamed to meet Douglas in the hall. He saw a figure in his peripheral vision and timidly raised his eyes. "Douglas. Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I'm a complete idiot."

"Not at all, Martin. You were a model of silence, right up until the moment you flushed the toilet," Douglas said.

Martin groaned again. "I'm so, so sorry. I honestly didn't intend to do it, it was just a reflex."

"No harm done. In fact, I think my stock might have risen a few points." Douglas grinned wryly. "And it's not every day I have handsome half-naked men in my house."

Were full-body blushes physically possible? Martin thought perhaps they were. "I reckon she'd have been shocked," he ventured, probing delicately.

"Not as shocked as you might think."

"So you…you date men as well?"

Douglas shrugged. "Now and then, 'dating' being the operative word, and even that might be a bit on the generous side. I've never had a sustained relationship with another chap."

"Why not?" Martin asked.

"Who knows? Back in my youth, a hundred thousand years ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth and the phrase 'free love' was still bandied about, none of the people in my set, male _or_ female, were particularly keen on long-term relationships. Then I met Sophie's mother, and between her and my other two wives there were some pleasant liaisons, but nothing I cared to prolong. You look surprised."

"I suppose I hadn't thought about you as bisexual. Gordon never mentioned a thing about it."

Douglas crossed his arms, looking rather magisterial. "Gordon, I'm pleased to say, was never privy to any of my romantic affairs."

"Probably for the best," Martin sighed. "Talking of which, I – thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"I eavesdropped," Martin confessed. "I know I shouldn't have done, but I couldn't help it. I heard what you said about…the headaches."

Douglas looked discomfited. "Sophie didn't know, Martin. She's not the condemning sort."

"No, it's not that. I'd have thought the same thing, if someone had blown by me without speaking. No, I mean thanks for covering for me." Abruptly, Martin raked his fingers through his hair, tugging on a particularly stubborn corkscrew. "God. I've made you complicit in all the lying. But that's our relationship in a nutshell, I suppose. Gordon treats me like rubbish, I lie about it, and I make everyone around me so uncomfortable that they feel as if they've got to lie as well." He let out a bitter little chuckle.

"You don't have to do that any longer."

"No, I know. I know."

Silence stretched between them, but oddly, it didn't feel uncomfortable. Martin glanced up at Douglas and offered him a timid smile, and Douglas smiled back. _I wish we'd known each other better. We might have been good friends. Even – oh, come off it._

"Why don't you have a shower and get dressed?" Douglas suggested. "I'll feed you up, then we've got to get going."

"Where are we going?"

"Well, I'm meeting my mate Alfie and Herc Shipwright at Fitton Airfield. Do you know Herc?"

"A little," Martin said. "He's wooing Carolyn."

"Unsuccessfully, by all accounts. Mrs. Knapp-Shappey is proving to be a rather tough nut to crack. As it were."

"Herc seems persistent, though." 

"Yes. I've no doubt he'll manage eventually. He has charm and looks to spare," Douglas said, sounding slightly disdainful. "Small world, isn't it? At any rate, Alfie's taking my car, and Herc's flying me to Shannon, where I'll join up with a charter group headed for Spain. A bit roundabout, but the original plans got scrapped, if you'll recall."

Martin nodded. "And me?" he asked quietly.

Douglas sighed. "There's a block of flats near Fitton Agricultural College headed for demolition. They're in rather poor shape, but still structurally sound. I'll drop you there and you can…escape and make your way home from there."

"I see."

"Unless, of course, you'd like to come to Spain and then perhaps Tangier via Shannon."

Martin hesitated. "Are you serious?"

"Certainly," Douglas replied.

Spain. Tangier. Maybe the CPL exams would be cheaper there. He could get a job, maybe doing removals and handy work for English-speaking residents…he could learn the local language…and maybe Douglas wouldn't mind a flatmate for a while. He looked at Douglas' hands and suddenly imagined them roaming down his body. His cock stirred, and he shifted the bedclothes, embarrassed. _God, one friendly offer and you're imagining him having his way with you! No wonder you fail so spectacularly at relationships._ "I suppose I'd better just go home," Martin said. "Thanks, though."

If Douglas was disappointed, he didn't show it. Why on earth would he show it? "All right. We'd better get a move on, then. I was going to wash your clothes again, but it's probably better if we just let them go. The police might wonder about a kidnapper fastidious enough to do his victim's laundry."

"I reckon they might. Maybe I shouldn't shower, either."

"Oh, right. Good thinking." Douglas laughed. "You're getting quite good at this."

"About time," Martin said with a smile. His heart hurt, just a little.

 

*

 

Dressed in a lightweight grey suit with a pinstriped blue apron over it, Douglas cooked Martin breakfast, bacon and eggs and toast, the same as he'd fed his daughter. They chatted as Martin ate and Douglas drank tea, mostly about flying. Martin hung on every word as Douglas regaled him with amusing or thrilling anecdotes about the aeroplanes he'd flown, the places he'd been, the weather and technical peculiarities of airports around the world. He was sorry when Douglas began cleaning up, and reluctantly stood to help.

"Would you mind if we turned on the news?" Douglas asked, consulting his watch. "I suppose it would be good to know if the police have thrown up any road blocks in Fitton." Martin agreed, and Douglas turned on the television in the lounge. The first item was about a possible Al-Qaeda chemical weapons plot in Iran; the second was about the upcoming Supermoon. Douglas looked relieved. "Slow local news day, I take it." 

They sat through a few adverts in silence, then the glossy, pretty news reader re-appeared on the screen. "Further developments in the abduction of Fitton's Martin Crieff." A picture of Gordon appeared beside her, with GUILTY? written in red across his face.

Martin and Douglas exchanged an uneasy glance.

"Investigation into the financial affairs of Crieff's partner Gordon Shappey indicate the possibility of malfeasance and criminal conspiracy. Crowley Hodge reports."

Martin sat next to Douglas, frozen, as the reporter on the television cheerfully nattered about Gordon's precarious financial manoeuvreing. Martin saw no reason for concern – Gordon's line of work was always precarious and erratic – high risk and high yield was his speciality. Gordon's money was secure, no matter how volatile his transactions. But then the reporter came back after a series of shots of London's trading floor, looking pleased with himself. "Most damning of all, however, is an anonymous tip we received that Shappey recently purchased kidnap insurance for Mr. Crieff only two days before Mr. Crieff was reported missing. In light of these allegations, Mr. Shappey made a brief statement to the press."

Gordon appeared onscreen, immaculate in suit and tie, but wan and pale and apparently exhausted. He cleared his throat and spoke as microphones crowded him and light from a dozen cameras flashed in his face. "This is a message for the person or persons who have abducted my husband, Martin Crieff." He swallowed. "There is no-one dearer to me than Martin. He has been my partner and support for years, and I cannot conceive of life without him. Please, I beg you not to harm him. You have threatened to murder him if the ransom is not paid. I implore you to show compassion. I will gladly pay what you demand. I ask that you telephone me. You have the number; the line is secure. Please do not hurt him." Gordon covered his eyes for a moment, then took his hands away. They shook slightly, but his eyes were dry. "I will make whatever arrangements are necessary to ensure his safety and facilitate your secure passage, wherever you wish to go. Please – telephone me. Assure me that my husband is well."

Numb once more, Martin watched the reporter and the news reader chat about the possibility of his death, of Gordon's complicity, about the scandal in the business community. As he watched, his thoughts whirled madly about. _He's lying. He's only saying that because he's being accused of conspiracy and he's anxious to be exonerated. He doesn't mean a word of it._

But what if he _did_ mean it? Oh, God.

The story ended, and Douglas got to his feet and snapped off the telly. He faced Martin, his eyes dancing. "Well, well."

"He's lying," Martin said, more to convince himself than to reassure Douglas. He stood, and started as Douglas grasped his shoulders.

"Do you see what this means?"

Martin frowned. "Not really."

"It means we've got him right where we want him. Perhaps we could ask for two million instead, Martin. And I'll give you half." Douglas sounded positively jubilant.

"You – you're going to go through with it?"

Douglas nodded, beaming. "Too bloody right I am. What do you think? Are you prepared to be a millionaire?"

Martin was glad for Douglas' steadying hands on his shoulders, because he felt dizzy. _Oh, don't black out now!_ He grabbed at Douglas' sleeves for support, and Douglas must have taken it as a positive sign, because he swept Martin into a quick but tight embrace. 

"Oh!" Martin clung to Douglas, staring up into his eyes, and then did the unthinkable.

 

*


	11. Chapter 11

*

 

It wasn't easy to catch Douglas Richardson on the hop. He'd coped with total engine failure whilst flying Gordon and six important guests to a remote region of Norway, Sophie's frightening and almost fatal struggle with meningitis as a little girl, and an incident in which Gabriella, a stewardess he was quite fond of and with whom he'd shared several lovely interludes, had thrown a clot and suffered a heart attack en route to Bruges. Douglas' cool head and steady hands had prevailed in those and other situations that would have caused lesser men to lose their wits, and he'd managed not only with competence, but with style and aplomb to spare. 

It was a bit of a shock, therefore, when he found himself utterly unprepared for Martin Crieff not only clinging to him like a limpet, but kissing him with astonishing thoroughness. So surprised was he, in fact, that his brain short-circuited and he simply stood frozen to the spot as Martin determinedly mashed his lips against Douglas'. In a flash, all he could think of was Sophie playing with her Barbie dolls and smashing their faces together in an earnest attempt to duplicate snogging. Another few seconds passed as he realised that Martin was more ardent than skilled, and yet another few seconds went by before Douglas thought Martin could do with a lesson or two in real kissing. So perhaps a total of seven seconds elapsed before the Richardson poise kicked back in and Douglas gently twined the fingers of one hand through Martin's curls, put his other hand on the small of Martin's back, drew him closer, and kissed him properly.

Martin's eyes flew open, and he let out a small noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, that was lost as Douglas kissed him. Martin's lips, particularly in repose, were full, almost pillowy, but he held them taut and tense, and curled his tongue oddly, as if kissing were an unpalatable duty rather than a sensual and pleasurable experience. Slowly, Douglas traced the tip of his tongue over the soft inner rim of Martin's lips, over and over until they opened, almost of their own accord, allowing Douglas to fully avail himself of Martin's mouth. And when Martin finally yielded, how lush it was, how inexpressibly sweet.

Douglas felt the tentative press of Martin's hands on his back, very unlike the aggressive kiss Martin had planted on him. He pulled Martin closer, fitting their bodies together, and shivered a little as his cock began to stir. _Lima Syndrome, bollocks. You're dying to fuck him – admit it. You want to see him naked and spread out and begging for your cock up his arse and oh dear God this is a really bad idea._

He disengaged his mouth from Martin's with an audible pop and held him away. His breath was coming in ragged pants, and he was quite sure his face was tomato-red.

"What…what?" Martin's eyes had been closed, but now they stared at Douglas, utterly confused. "What?"

"Martin…I can't."

"What?" It seemed to be the only word Martin was capable of uttering. Then he found a few other words. "Why did you stop?"

"We can't. _I_ can't," Douglas amended.

Martin's face, which had been pink, flushed a deeper red. "Why?"

"Oh, God." Douglas still held Martin at arm's length, but couldn't bring himself to let go entirely. "I can't even begin to enumerate the number of reasons why it's a terrible idea."

"I don't understand," Martin whispered, and looked down at the floor. His mouth, lusciously pink, trembled.

"Look, I realise that I'm slightly more than morally suspect, but I don't think I've reached the bankruptcy stage quite yet. I _want_ to kiss you, Martin, more than you can possibly imagine, but dear God in heaven, what sort of person would I be if I persisted in kissing you? Haven't I taken advantage enough?"

Martin looked up again and met Douglas' gaze, his eyes startlingly fierce. "What if I didn't care?"

"Martin, I've thrown you into utter chaos. It's an astounding intrusion on my part." Douglas' erection wasn't precisely rampant, but all at once he realised that it was at least a little evident. He let Martin go and turned away, giving himself a moment to calm down.

"I'm _not_ stupid."

Douglas turned. "Sorry?"

"You heard me." Martin's face was redder than ever, contrasting oddly with his ginger hair. "I might not be an intellectual giant, but I'm not stupid and I'm not some horny kid who can't keep h-his knob in his pants. If you don't fancy me, then say so, but don't kiss me back and then just tell me to sod off."

"I did nothing of the kind," Douglas replied, almost sputtering at Martin's sudden anger. "What on earth are you –" He blinked as Martin grasped his wrist, then all but launched himself at Douglas and kissed him again. This time Martin was even more aggressive, all but auguring his tongue down Douglas' throat. He mightn't have been a horny kid, but he certainly kissed like one. Douglas thought about pulling away for a second and a half, then kissed Martin back.

Clumsy and hesitant as Martin was – hadn't Gordon taught him anything about kissing? Hadn't anyone? – God, it felt so damned _good_. How had he held back for so long? Martin's body was pressed tightly against his, and his lower body was moving without, it seemed, conscious design, undulating slowly, rubbing with light, maddening pressure. _Now that's not a bad trick._ Douglas found his erection returning with considerable haste. He nibbled on Martin's full lower lip for a moment, then tasted the pale length of Martin's throat, warm, slightly salty. "Martin…we've got to stop," he groaned. "I've got nearly twenty years on you, for the love of God."

"Gordon's twenty-five years older than I am." Martin's hand slid down Douglas' chest, over his belly and found the erect cock beneath his suit trousers. "H-haven't you ever wanted to do something completely mad and impulsive, Douglas?" 

"Last time I did something mad and impulsive, you wound up in the boot of my car." Douglas stifled a gasp as Martin's hand began to stroke him through wool and the slick silk of his boxers.

"What if that turned out to be the cleverest decision you ever made?"

"Somehow I doubt that." Douglas suckled on Martin's earlobe and reached round to fondle Martin's arse. It was firm, and round; Douglas wanted to bite the tender flesh, to kiss and suckle and tease at Martin with his tongue until Martin was writhing and begging beneath him. "Martin – Martin, no. No." He kissed Martin's mouth again, wallowing in its softness contrasting with the prickle of pale-ginger stubble on paler skin. His cock, caught lightly in Martin's hand, was aching. "You'd regret it, and you'd resent me, and God knows I've done enough to incur your resentment –"

"I don't care," Martin whispered harshly. "I don't care." He was panting. Slowly, but inexorably, he propelled Douglas toward the sofa. "I won't ever see you again."

Douglas froze, overwhelmed by an emotion he'd experienced only three or four times in his entire existence. Because of its rarity, he was still for a very long moment until he finally managed to identify the emotion as confusion. Complete, staggering, mind-numbing confusion.

Martin pulled away. "What's wrong?"

Martin's mouth was full and enticing, but Douglas only shook his head. "Good God."

"What?"

"Of all the times to realise…I'm sorry." Douglas pulled away. "I'm so, so sorry, Martin. I can't have a one-night stand with you."

"But…why, for goodness' sake? Why? I've seen you with women. Gordon mightn't have noticed anything, but I've seen you at airports, in Fitton, and you never seemed to give a toss about – is it because I'm a man? Is that it? Or something else. You managed liaisons with other men, but somehow I don't fit the bill." Martin's voice was ragged. "I'm not your type. Too small, too scrawny, too ginger."

"No." How could he explain? He didn't understand it himself. He couldn't fuck Martin once – or however many times they managed to fuck over the course of a day and an evening – and then simply go away. And why not? It had been working for years and years; of all the times to develop some sort of romantic crush, this was certainly the most ill-timed and inconvenient. _You're not in love with him, for God's sake. You can't fall in love over the space of five days. That's for fairy tales. It's Lima Syndrome, that's all. An artificially charged environment and proximity and racing hormones thanks to stress and danger. Why can't you think rationally?_ "It's not –"

"'It's not you, it's me,'" Martin intoned. "Fine." He drew his hands up his cheeks, producing a scratchy noise, and scrubbed at his eyes. He stood still for a moment, then dropped his hands and met Douglas' gaze, looking more miserable than Douglas had ever seen him. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. Gordon always says that I have terrible impulse control. It was…that was totally inappropriate of me, and I apologise."

"You don't owe me an apology," Douglas sighed. He slumped onto the sofa. _You've been with him – no, correction. You KIDNAPPED him less than a week ago, and your behaviour is drifting past infatuation and into Mills & Boon territory._ "Perhaps I should apologise to you. If I misled you in any way, or gave you any reason to think –"

"You didn't," Martin said hastily. "No. It's…like I said, it's me and my impulsivity. Let's just forget it. I'd hate to think that the past week might be marred by awkwardness." He tried to smile and failed.

As he studied Martin's face, Douglas' heart gave a great, unlovely lurch in his chest. _Oh my God. You're completely smitten. Of all the inconvenient and self-sabotaging acts of stupidity. What the hell is wrong with you?_ He managed to return the smile. "Yes, it's been a perfect idyll otherwise." He stood, glad his erection had subsided once more, and rested a hand briefly on Martin's shoulder. "It's the situation, Martin. Your world's in upheaval. You mustn't blame yourself."

Martin stared down at the floor and nodded. "I suppose you're right. Douglas, look…much as I'd like to, I can't take any of the ransom money."

Douglas frowned. "Why is that?"

"I'd like to say it came from a place of noble self-sacrifice, but honestly, I'm scared to take it. If I suddenly turn up in Fitton with a lot of money, people would start asking questions, and…well, I've never been really eloquent under pressure. I'm afraid I'd crack." He smiled – only a small, wry smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I appreciate the gesture, though."

"You're sure?" It was actually hurting Douglas to look at Martin now. "I won't say it's necessarily the right thing to do, but I shouldn't feel guilty about it were I you. If you had that much money, you wouldn't have to stay in Fitton, you know. You can start a life independent of Gordon; you can take the CPL as many times as you need to without having to worry about paying the rent. Not that I'm trying to force you into complicity." He held his breath, waiting and hoping. _Idiot._

"I know." Martin heaved a sigh. "I'm not saying it wouldn't be useful. But Fitton's my home…and I can't. I'm sorry."

"All right." What else was there to say? "I've got a few calls to make. Why don't you head upstairs and read for a bit?"

"Are you going to call Gordon?"

"Yes, but I've got to think how. The police will be monitoring mobile phones, I imagine."

"I could disable the GPS chip on my mobile. It's easy – I saw it on a television programme."

"I think there's some pretty sophisticated software out there that doesn't require a GPS to track mobile signals."

"Oh." Martin's eyes clouded. "What'll you do?"

Douglas found himself wishing he hadn't cut off the kiss so quickly. What if he just…no. God, no. _Pull yourself together. It's not going to happen. If you cut this thing off at the knees now, it'll be that much easier getting past it later._

He tried for a measure of his old confidence. "I'll think of something."

Somehow, it didn't seem convincing.

 

*

 

The IT specialist who accompanied the police inspector and her assistant reminded him a bit of Martin: slight, wiry, badly dressed. It was odd that Gordon found himself attracted to that sort of man. The specialist, who introduced himself as Kelvin (was that a first name or a surname?) was a bit younger than Martin, dark-haired and bespectacled. Gordon had given him a warm smile, but Kelvin had only stared at him blankly, pushed up the sleeves of his ancient and moth-eaten jumper, and buried himself in a hopeless snarl of wires and cables. 

When he emerged at last, a peculiar arrangement of machinery sat silent and blinking ominously in the corner of Gordon's library, and the police inspector (Inspector Roy – not good-looking, and not his type at all) endeavoured to explain the machines' myriad confusing functions to him. Gordon couldn't have been less interested, though he tried not to show it. It was a relief when Jaye, the cook, tiptoed into the library. "Mr. Shappey, would the…would your guests like coffee?"

"Oh, great," Roy said, flashing Jaye a smile. "Black, please."

"Black, one sugar," said her assistant, a stout, balding fellow with a voice like a foghorn.

"Half milk, four sugars," muttered Kelvin, tapping on his keyboard.

"Just bring a tray, if you would," Gordon said irritably. He didn't mind ordering Jaye about – that was her job, anyway – but he didn't like it when other people did. "Why do you suppose he hasn't called yet? It's been hours and hours. You don't think –" He forced an expression of woebegone anxiety onto his face, which transmuted into genuine pain when he looked at the aluminium case filled with stacks and stacks of cash – a million pounds' worth. It was DNA marked, or some such rubbish, so the likelihood of the kidnappers actually getting away with their crime was small, but the thought of losing so much money, however temporarily, was stomach-turning. He thought of the kidnap insurance (the police had swallowed his story of a prior threat with surprising ease) and his heart sank. Bloody Martin – it would be just like him to survive all this perfectly intact. Gordon gritted his teeth.

"Don't worry, Mr. Shappey. They'll call, I'm certain of it. How's Double-Oh-Six doing?" Inspector Roy asked Kelvin.

"Bright and shiny, and purring like a kitten," Kelvin said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Nothing to do now but wait."

Inspector Roy turned to Gordon. "Double-Oh-Six is our little name for our IMSI catcher, that setup over there," she said, waving in the direction of a pile of blinking electronic junk. "It's a portable base transceiver station that enables us to intercept mobile calls. Really handy little device."

"Terrific," Gordon muttered.

"I realise it's terribly upsetting, Mr. Shappey, but you've got to keep your chin up," she said, misinterpreting Gordon's indifference for anxiety. "They'll have seen the news by now, and they're probably regrouping, but you'll hear from them."

"Can we be reasonably certain that Martin's still alive?"

"Statistically, yes. They want the money far more than they want Martin dead. This isn't a group with a grudge, or you'd have likely heard about it already. This is a greedy, desperate person or persons who saw your husband as an easy victim and took advantage. The good news is that greedy, desperate people almost always make mistakes."

"What sort of mistakes?" Gordon asked, interested despite himself.

"Oh, all sorts. Choosing the wrong friends, for one. Criminals seek their own level, you know, and it's almost inevitable that there's in-fighting, quarrelling over how to divide the ransom, sometimes violence. Often, one of the gang becomes disgruntled and flees, and we'll receive an anonymous phone tip. No honour among thieves, as they say."

"I suppose so," Gordon said. He wondered how many men were in the gang who'd kidnapped Martin, and if they'd taken their frustrations, if any, out on him.

"Then there's the sort who can't keep from boasting about what they've done, and you wouldn't believe how often it happens. Eventually the information finds its way to us. And then there's the sort who just plan poorly. They'll leave clues at the crime scene, DNA, fingerprints…our track record of rescuing kidnap victims is first-rate, Mr. Shappey. You'll have Martin back in no time. For what it's worth, I'm sorry you're being hounded by the press." Roy looked at a photograph of Gordon and Martin's wedding day and smiled. "It's obvious you're mad about Mr. Crieff."

"Is it?" He hoped Roy was telling the truth. He'd be damned if he'd let the kidnappers have the ransom; he'd go after them himself if the police didn't have the balls for it. 

Just as Inspector Roy opened her mouth to answer, Gordon's mobile buzzed. Everyone in the room tensed. Gordon glanced down at the readout. "Christ." He shook his head and addressed Kelvin. "Don't record this, it's just my ex-wife." He picked up the phone. "What is it, Carolyn?"

"So lovely to speak to you, Gordon."

"Sorry, I haven't got time to chat. The police are here. We're waiting for a call from Martin's abductors."

"Surely you have call waiting."

"That's scarcely the point." Gordon glanced at Kelvin, Roy, and Roy's assistant, all of whom wore headphones and were pretending not to stare at him. Well, they _had_ said all Gordon's calls would be monitored. He supposed Carolyn wouldn't be any bitchier than she usually was. He tried for the sympathy vote. "I'm a bit on edge, Carolyn. My husband's life is hanging in the balance, you know."

"Yes, that's the reason I'm calling," Carolyn said crisply.

"What? Why?"

"I realise it's an emotion entirely unfamiliar to you, Gordon, but I'm actually concerned about the poor boy."

Gordon half-covered the phone and swung abruptly to the police team. "Can't you stop recording for a minute?" he hissed. Kelvin grinned and shook his head. Gordon scowled and uncovered the phone. "Your concern's noted. Appreciated. Thanks, Carolyn. Look, I haven't heard from him, and I really shouldn't –"

"It must be positively nerve-wracking to be accused of engineering the whole thing."

"Yes," Gordon snapped. "And as usual, you're not melting with sympathy."

"So why didn't you pay the ransom immediately?"

Gordon wanted to ring off, but there was no point arousing the suspicions of the team, now watching him with open curiosity. "I don't have ready access to that sort of cash. You know that. Not that it's a particle of your business."

"In fact, it is, but we won't quibble over that at the moment. The papers say you purchased kidnap insurance recently."

"Yes?" Gordon's voice cooled by several degrees. Either someone at the insurance company had leaked information to the press, or Arthur had seen the paperwork, though Gordon's money was on an insurance informer. Arthur wasn't what could be termed observant on any level.

"I presume ransom money is part of the package."

" _Yes_." Gordon longed to reach through the phone and throttle her. "Since you clearly know nothing about kidnap insurance, I'll give you a few basics. Because I reported a prior threat, the company is withholding payment until there's definitive proof that I'm not behind the kidnap. It's complicated, Carolyn, and I'm really not inclined to discuss it further."

"You always were a miser."

"And you always were a fat, money-grubbing slag." _God damn it!_ Carolyn never failed to make Gordon lose his cool, the miserable gash. Maybe the police would chalk his snappishness up to worry.

"Sticks and stones, Gordon, sticks and stones," Carolyn trilled, sounding delighted with herself. "Besides, I never asked you for a thing except Arthur's maintenance and the house because you pleaded cash poverty for so long. And despite your extravagant and vulgar lifestyle, I never questioned it because I wanted a bit of peace. Now I'm starting to wonder, however."

"What – you believe what they're printing in the _Mail_?" Gordon snorted. "Well, good luck to you. Are you trying to retro-fit your maintenance arrangement, Carolyn? You realise it doesn't work that way."

"Unless you've concealed assets, of course."

Gordon went cold. He didn't dare look over at the police team, but from the utter silence, he guessed they were watching him avidly. "Don't worry, Carolyn dear. Everything will stand up to investigation."

"We'll see, I suppose. I do hope Martin is returned safely. He's a good boy, despite his nervousness."

God, he hated her. She'd always been able to bait him with maddening success. For a fleeting moment, he wished they were still married and that the kidnappers had taken her instead. He would have asked for the address to their hideout so he could participate in the murder. "Too good for the likes of me. Isn't that what you mean?"

"Gordon, a common garden slug is too good for the likes of you. I don't know where you got your eye for people you can bully. I only hope that when Martin does come back, he sees that living with you is risky in more ways than one."

"I've heard enough of your vile insinuations," Gordon managed evenly, though his heart was pounding with rage and he felt blood surging to his face. "Good night." He clicked off and took a deep breath. _Cunt. Greedy fucking cunt._ Pushing his chair back, he stood up, set the phone down, and rested his fingertips on his desk. 

Concealed assets.

God damn Martin Crieff to hell. He hoped they'd pulled his fingernails, laid hot pokers on the soles of his feet, and fucked him hard enough to leave a size thirteen arsehole. If he came back, Gordon would strip him of every watch, every set of cuff links, every cashmere jumper he'd showered upon the ungrateful little sod, and turn him out on the street, but not before having a go at Martin himself. He deserved it, for Christ's sake.

He turned to the silent police, still watching him. "Would you excuse me for a moment? Call of nature." He wheeled, went out of the library, pushing past Jaye, overburdened with a tray of coffee and little cakes, and slipped into the loo, closing the door quietly behind him. He snapped the light on and stared into the mirror.

Gordon was a cool liar under pressure, but he couldn't prevent the raw panic that clawed at his insides. His affairs _would_ stand up to investigation – to a certain point. He'd been careful to keep the dodgiest of his investments away from actual ownership, just far enough away to avoid ordinary scrutiny, but close scrutiny – dear God. That on top of margin calls and the bloody, _fucking_ million-pound ransom and the _sodding_ insurance company who refused to pay immediately – everything was falling apart, and he didn't know how to hold it together any longer.

His gaze fell on the Makuzu Kozan vase in the wall niche. It was indigo-blue, decorated with slender stems, leaves, and flowers in a delicate cream colour, and its shape was so perfect, so beautifully and gracefully rounded that it made the heart ache just to look at it. Martin had asked him if he'd found it at Ikea, because he'd once seen something similar there. 

_Ikea_ , for the love of Christ. Little _fuck_.

Gordon's hand swept out, hurling the vase to the tile floor, where it landed with a shattering crash, spraying shards of expensive porcelain all over the slate. Blankly, he stared down at the splinters and stepped on a piece the size of a playing card, listening to the satisfying crunch under his shoe.

An urgent pounding sounded at the door. "Mr. Shappey? You all right?" It was the burly no-name assistant. Gordon decided to call him Sergeant Busybody.

"Just a minute, Busybody," he muttered, and ran the water, splashing some on his face and rubbing his eyes. He squinted at himself in the mirror, then turned and opened the door.

"I heard a crash." Busybody's piggy little eyes crawled over him, then tried to look past him into the loo. "Everything all right?"

Gordon rubbed at his eyes again. "I broke a vase," he said hoarsely. "It was Martin's favourite." He put his hands to his face for a moment, then stiffened as Busybody touched his shoulder. He managed – just – not to punch the invasive little toad in the face.

"Come on in the library, Mr. Shappey. Some coffee, that's the thing. We'll tell the maid about the vase, she can clean it up."

"Jaye's the cook, not the maid," Gordon mumbled, but allowed himself to be steered into the library. Roy was staring at him, her expression concerned, and Kelvin was banging away on his laptop. _Fuck off!_ he wanted to scream. _Fuck off, all of you! Take your laptops and your forensic kit and your fucking Double-Oh-Six and get the fuck out of my house!_ He felt a scream building up in his chest and took a deep breath before he succumbed to rage. Wouldn't do to hit one of these bastards.

Just as he got his breathing under control, his mobile shrilled.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long waits in between updates. Life is a wee bit hectic right now. I hope to post on a much more timely schedule soon. Thanks so much for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

*

 

Looking inconspicuous wasn't as easy as it was cracked up to be. Martin pushed his borrowed sunglasses up on his nose, adjusted the brim of his also-borrowed cap lower over his eyes and affected a nonchalant slouch up against the phone box. He felt a bit ridiculous in one of Douglas' old uni rugby shirts, so faded and tattered it seemed a bit fetishistic to keep it, but it was a good disguise. Nobody would recognise him, particularly leaning against a phone box in the middle of Islington. He adjusted his cap once more and tried not to listen to Douglas' conversation. He failed spectacularly.

"Yes, I realise it's the third time, Herc, but you know how schedules can shift around. What have you got going on tomorrow or the next day?" There was a pause. "Oh. I can't say I'm too enthusiastic about going to Heidelberg. Yes, I know it's pretty, I'd just – what's that? No, of course I'm grateful, and I hope you'll do me the kindness of not holding this over my head for the rest of my life. Hm? No, I suppose not. Well, as long as he can get me to Tangier, that's all I care about. All right. Fine. What time? Right. Tell him thanks, and I'll see you Sunday morning." Douglas hung up the phone and sighed, then stepped out of the phone box. "Right, King's Cross. Let's hop back on," he said, indicating the entrance to the underground.

A blast of hot, slightly urinous air hit Martin in the face as they descended the stairs. He winced. "Is everything okay?" 

"Yes. It's a bit later than I'd hoped to leave, but I have a paucity of options from which to choose." Douglas fed his ticket into the slot and passed through the turnstile, then waited for Martin to do the same. "The route is less than ideal, too, but it's free and it's private, so I must be grateful for that, at least. And Alfie was fine with waiting a few more days for the car. I can try to see Sophie one more time before I leave, too. Think positive," he said with a wry smile.

"That's good," Martin mumbled. He was glad for the sunglasses, even though it was gloomy in the tube station and he felt like a complete impostor. Since that ill-timed kiss and subsequent excruciatingly awkward conversation, he couldn't bring himself to meet Douglas' gaze. It wasn't just that he was embarrassed, though he _was_ ; it was that kissing Douglas had brought about a sort of sea change that he scarcely fathomed in his intense confusion. He'd figured there was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome thing happening between him and Douglas, but when they'd kissed – that wasn't just sympathy or some weird identification that made his heart beat so rapidly or that sent his thoughts into a maelstrom of confusion. Was it? He didn't think so. Couldn't be!

It was really bizarre, the whole kidnap. He knew that. He knew, too, that even though Douglas, after the initial threats and rough treatment, had been kind to him, his reaction had been a bit over the top. After all, it was probably normal for someone in a bad relationship to cling to the first kind soul to come along; it wasn't fair, but likely it happened every day. The thing to do was to understand it, and learn how to distance himself properly. Easy enough. Douglas would be leaving soon, and they'd never see each other again.

The thought gave him a sharp, slicing pain in his chest. He fastened his gaze on Douglas, walking slightly ahead of him, and wanted to bang his skull against the nearest hard surface. He quickened his pace and half-consciously reached up and touched the nape of his own neck, where Douglas had held him so gently. He'd felt Douglas' fingers threading through his hair as though it was a pleasure rather than an annoyance, and Douglas had kissed him so…so slowly, and…well, it had _felt_ tender, even if it hadn't been. And Douglas had _wanted_ to kiss him – he'd said so, hadn't he? Oh, God, what a mess.

_You are the biggest, most pathetic, walking, talking cliché in the world. Who, in this century, falls in love with their kidnapper?_

Douglas turned and smiled at Martin as the train pulled to a stop and disgorged a load of passengers. He put a proprietary hand on Martin's back as someone jostled him, and Martin couldn't help smiling back, even though there were tiny needles of ice embedded in his heart. What was he going to do when he left Gordon and he didn't have Douglas to talk to? He'd never considered himself the sort of person who couldn't be without a partner, simply because he'd rarely had one. Gordon had been one of exactly three people with whom he'd had sex; it was safe to say the scope of his experience was rather narrow. Still, he didn't consider himself the clingy type.

He sat on the bench next to Douglas, and through the concealing lenses of his sunglasses, watched Douglas in the window reflection. Douglas scrolled through his phone, humming under his breath. He had what sounded like a very lovely singing voice.

_Oh, for goodness' sake. STOP._

He wrenched his gaze from Douglas and studied a poster on the wall, an advert for a play. He wondered if Douglas were the sort of fellow who went to plays. Probably. He probably went to plays and concerts and restaurants where the food was interesting and plentiful, not some place where one only went to be seen, and where the main fare was three peas and a two-microns-thin slice of salmon drizzled with a zigzag of wine reduction. Douglas read more than the financial section of the paper, if Martin's quick glance into his library was any indication, and he'd made his life's work the one burning ambition of Martin's entire existence.

How could he not fall in love with someone like that?

Douglas touched his arm. "That was a rather deep breath. Are you all right?"

Martin nodded and gave Douglas a grin that he knew probably looked horribly false, but he couldn't bear to let Douglas see his forlorn, bedraggled spirit, nor his pathetic, still-lingering hope. "Are you nervous?" he asked, pitching his voice low.

"A bit, but I won't be the one doing the talking. How are _you_?"

"All right. I just hope it all works out."

"Well, we'll see, won't we? Here we are."

The phone box they found was hanging ajar. Biting his lip, Douglas went in, then beckoned to Martin.

It was a tight fit. Hoping nobody noticed the pair of them wedged into the box like sardines, Martin turned awkwardly and picked up the handset. "I haven't got any change," he said apologetically.

"Never mind, I do. I was a scout. Always prepared." Douglas stuffed his hand into his trouser pocket and came up with a fistful of coins. "Here you are."

"Thanks." Martin took a few coins and deposited them into the phone. He took a deep breath, let it out, and punched in Gordon's mobile number. He held the phone away from his ear so Douglas could hear both ends of the conversation.

Gordon picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Gordon?"

"Martin!" There was a pause, and a sudden fuzz of static. "My God, love, are you all right?"

"Y-yes, I'm all right. How are you?" Douglas raised his eyebrows, and Martin shook his head and mouthed "Sorry."

"Frantic. My God, never mind about me." Gordon's voice was unusually loud, but not precisely brimming with affection. _No surprises there._ "I'm just beyond relieved, pet. You –"

"Gordon, please listen. I haven't got a lot of time. Um, the venue hasn't changed. Warren Street Station, five-thirty tomorrow. Two million pounds."

" _Two_ \-- what the _fuck_ \--" Gordon took an angry, hissing breath through his nose. "The deal was for _one_ million."

Douglas shrugged.

"I'm afraid they're insisting on it." The line went fuzzy again. "No police, Gordon."

"No. No police," Gordon said flatly.

A chill ran down Martin's back. He glanced at Douglas, who was listening intently. "I've got to go. I-I'll see you tomorrow, Gordon." Slowly, he hung up the phone. "Douglas…something's wrong."

"Tell me in the car," Douglas said. "I don't want to linger here. I'm starting to feel conspicuous."

Wordlessly, they retraced their steps, taking the tube to the car park near Mile End. They climbed in, and Douglas started the car and began the drive to Fitton. "All right. Tell me."

"The police are there."

"Well, that doesn't really surprise me," Douglas said. "I didn't think he'd simply take this lying down. I'm certain he's not willing to relinquish that much money."

"Yes, but…even so, normally he'd be steaming at the thought of even the possibility of losing that much money."

"He rather was steaming, I thought."

"But he didn't even _try_ to negotiate," Martin said. He took off the cap he wore and wrung it in his hands for a moment, staring out unseeingly at the passing cityscape. "Douglas. Don't go."

Douglas stared at him askance for a few seconds before returning his attention to the road. "You're joking."

"You're going to get caught." Martin heard his voice rising in anxiety. "Douglas, two million pounds isn't worth ten years in prison." He fielded another skeptical glance. "I'm not trying to protect Gordon. You mustn't think that. I don't want you to go to prison. There must be some alternative to all this." Timidly, he reached out and rested his hand on Douglas' upper arm for a moment. "I don't want to see you hurt."

Douglas was quiet for a long time. He turned onto the westward motorway toward Fitton, his eyes focused on the road. 

Something sweet and pretty was playing on the radio, a classical piano piece Martin had heard a few times before but couldn't identify. Evening was approaching; the light was fading to a soft glow. Martin chewed on his lip. _I should have thrown caution to the wind and said I'd go to Ibiza, or Tangier, or wherever Douglas was heading. We could have been there already. Too late now. God, I'm so stupid._

"Martin, I've come too far." Douglas' voice was soft and, Martin fancied, regretful. "It's too late now."

Douglas' tone frightened Martin. "Why do you say it like that? Douglas…Douglas, it's all right to admit you've made a mistake." He gave a shaky little laugh. "God knows I've had to admit a few myself this week."

"Don't worry about me, Martin. I was blessed with extraordinary luck. Things always turn out fine for me." Forced lightness crept into Douglas' delivery until the last words fell with a leaden thump.

Martin stared at Douglas' white knuckles on the wheel. "Promise me that if you see it going bad, you'll run," he said in a near whisper. "Do what you have to do to take care of yourself."

Douglas nodded. "All right. I suppose I can promise that much."

"Thank you." Martin yearned to touch Douglas again, but he didn't. Instead he twisted the cap in his hands and watched the orange disc of the setting sun.

 

*

 

The crowds of hungry tourists surging in and out of McDonald's provided ample cover for Martin and Douglas to watch the entrance to Warren Street Station without being detected. They sat next to the glass wall without speaking, each nursing a coffee. Douglas seemed incredibly relaxed for a man who was on the verge of being apprehended for kidnapping. It was a pessimistic way of thinking, but Martin couldn't help it; he was sure that there were plainclothes police crawling everywhere. Compulsively, he drummed his fingers on the cheap, shiny fake wood of the table until Douglas gently laid his hand atop Martin's.

"Relax."

"Right. Right." Martin had his back to the entrance of the restaurant. "Er – do you want another coffee? Something to eat?"

"No, thanks. I had a Big Mac once and it was one of the most distressing culinary experiences of my life."

Martin said nothing and hoped the blush on his cheeks wasn't too obvious. Before he'd moved in with Gordon, McDonald's had constituted a treat. Meat was so expensive and he never bought it, but every once in a while, after a removal job that had paid pretty well, he'd gone to McDonald's for a full meal on the cheap and had savoured every greasy, salty bite. He'd stopped after meeting Gordon, naturally; Gordon had nothing but contempt and loathing for McDonald's, considering it food fit only for the unwashed masses. "Are you sure you're going to do this on your own? You're not going to hire someone the way you did last time?"

"I think under the circumstances, I'll take my chances on my own. You're major news now, Mr. Crieff."

Martin, in cap and sunglasses once more, drummed his fingers again before catching himself and shook his head sadly. "I wish there were some other way to get that money for you."

"So do I, but as there isn't, I'll have to do the best I can." Douglas patted Martin's nervous hand. "It'll be all right. It's good of you to be concerned for me." The pat turned into a caress, and he snatched his hand away, clearing his throat loudly. "Sorry. Maybe we should go over the plan one more time. Not that there's much to it."

"Right. You'll take the stairs down to the platform and wait for Gordon. When the train lets its passengers out, you grab the bags and jump on the train. You've got the text ready to go?"

Douglas nodded. "All set."

"When you jump on the train, you'll text me, and I'll run down quickly to distract him." Martin gave Douglas a lopsided smile. "Though I-I don't think that I'm going to prove much of a distraction once Gordon's lost all that money."

"Just do your best. I think that – hold on." Douglas peered out the window. "There he is."

Martin looked out. "It's him. Oh my God." He stared in steadily increasing anxiety. Gordon was standing near the entrance to the tube station, fully turned out in a three-piece suit and toting two Sainsbury's carrier bags.

"Right, stay calm," Douglas said. "I can't see him well without leaning over. Don't be obvious about it, but take a good look about and tell me if you see anything or anyone suspicious."

"They're _all_ suspicious," Martin muttered, scanning the crowds. It was difficult to take his eyes from Gordon, who looked good; clearly tense, but remarkably un-haggard for someone whose life partner had been abducted. But of course, he didn't give a tinker's damn for Martin's fate. Still hard to remember that properly. "It doesn't seem as if there's anyone about. Wait." He watched Gordon, who looked up, then to his left, then his right. "I can't see anyone," Martin said plaintively. 

"I do," Douglas said. "The bag lady, to the right. With the light-green mac."

Martin stared. "How do you know?"

"How many bag ladies have little curly wires sticking out of their ear?" Douglas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "That's it. It's done."

Torn between relief and disappointment on Douglas' behalf, Martin continued to look around. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to buy some food, then stroll out of here with the utmost nonchalance, chatting and laughing, and we're going back to the car. Come on." Douglas pushed himself up from the table and walked to the counter, not waiting for Martin to follow. He ordered two Big Macs, French fries, and two more coffees.

Martin pulled out his wallet. "Here," he said, extracting some cash. "I still have a few quid."

"Not necessary, M – Mike."

Martin glanced about quickly. God, there weren't police in the restaurant, were there? "No, really. I know you hate the stuff. It's on me." _Besides, I think he might be even more skint than I am._

Douglas hesitated, then accepted the cash. "Thanks," he said softly. He paid for the food, collected the already grease-stained bags, and turned on his heel. "You see Bradley last night?" he said loudly, talking over his shoulder. "Yobbo was sliding all over the pitch like a madman, crashing into everyone like he was the bloody Titanic, and when he got a second yellow for the foul, he blamed it on the mud. Fair play, they caught him sliding before it happened, but he can't kick a ball if it's laid down in front of him. Arsehole." He held the door for Martin and began walking quickly but not conspicuously so down the street.

Martin blinked in confusion. "Erm. Yeah. That was brutal." He took the burger Douglas fished out of the paper bag and unwrapped it halfway, then took a big bite. Delicious. "I really liked the…way he passes, though." He didn't dare look round, afraid that the police were following them. "O-of course otherwise they should probably sack him." He paused. "We _are_ talking about football, right?"

Douglas gave him a sideways look of mingled amusement and exasperation. "Trying."

"Sorry, I've never been much good at that. I've never really been sporty or anything."

"It's all right. I think we're okay. Just keep walking and chatting. How's your Big Mac?"

"Really good," Martin said, taking another huge bite. "Haven't had one in ages."

"Ugh."

"Well, you got one for yourself. Why didn't you get a chicken sandwich?"

Douglas snorted. "I doubt the chicken is any more reliable than the beef."

"Have a French fry, then."

"Oh, God. Even worse. How is it possible to so thoroughly mangle a simple chip?"

"Well, I'll eat your share," Martin said, and took a sip of coffee. He smiled at Douglas, but Douglas wasn't looking at him; instead he was staring ahead intently, and walking so fast Martin had to trot to keep up. Something told Martin that their moment of friendly banter was over.

They reached the viciously expensive center-city car park and got in the car. Douglas paid the fare and drove off, and they travelled for fifteen minutes without speaking. Martin watched Douglas' face out of the corner of his eye, noting the tense set to his mouth, his furrowed brow. Douglas' foot rested lightly on the accelerator, but he gave the impression of wanting to slam it down to the floor.

"Douglas," Martin said at last, "I'm really sorry."

Douglas nodded. "I'm going to take you home, Martin. If you don't mind, we'll wait until it gets dark, and I'll drop you at a bus stop near your house. Not too near, though, just in case there are any police about. I hope that's acceptable."

"Of course – whatever you need to do. I don't mind." Martin put the crumpled Big Mac wrapper in the bag. His appetite was gone. He folded and re-folded the top of the bag, and looked unhappily out the window. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Douglas patted his thigh, a gesture that should have been warm and friendly but instead seemed perfunctory and cheerless. "It's all right."

But it wasn't.

 

*

 

"You're sure it's every half hour?" Douglas inquired.

"It was a few weeks ago," Martin said. "I didn't double-check because my phone battery finally died."

Douglas reached for his own mobile. "I can check –"

"No, it's all right. I don't mind waiting a bit. You probably…you probably shouldn't linger, though. I don't want anyone to see us together. Erm, thanks for the books." He patted the stack of flight books Douglas had given him.

"My pleasure. Right." Douglas let out a long breath. "Well. What are you going to do when you get home?"

"Say hello," Martin said. "Then start packing. Gordon won't mind. He'll probably won't even notice I'm leaving, he'll be so overjoyed that he saved all that dosh. Oh – sorry." He felt his face burning. _God_ , he was so tactless. Douglas would likely be delighted to get rid of him. "Sorry. That was – oh, God, Douglas. I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot, Martin, but you _are_ quite something." He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "You know, in spite of the fact that I'm no more financially well-off than I was when I began this ridiculous little caper, I'm not sorry it happened. That is, I'm sorry that I frightened you, but otherwise, it's been rather nice getting to know you. I _am_ sorry we won't see each other again."

"Maybe we will. At least you won't have to leave." They'd agreed that Martin would tell Gordon he'd been blindfolded or left in a dark room for the duration of his kidnap and hadn't seen his abductors' faces and didn't know where he'd been held, but that there were three perpetrators and they seemed to be Welsh.

"Yes, I'm grateful for that, at least. Though I might have to leave in any case if I can't find a job. Gordon, in all likelihood, still has his axe out for me all over town. So I probably won't see you again. It's too bad."

"It is. I'm glad we got to know each other, too. Kidnap notwithstanding." Martin gave Douglas a shaky smile. The looming embarrassment of his clumsy amorous assault still hovered between them, and yet he wanted to kiss Douglas so very badly. He stuck his hand out. "Good luck, Douglas."

Douglas took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Good luck to you, Martin. There's a lot of vim and vigour in there. You're going to be just fine. And you'll get that CPL someday. I'm certain of it." He hesitated, as if he were about to say something else, then he pulled Martin into his arms and gave him a fierce hug.

Martin's eyes burned as he wound his arms round Douglas' solidity, and he buried his nose in Douglas' neck, a sort of sneaky thing to do, but oh God, he couldn't help himself. Ferociously, he pressed his lips against Douglas' pulse and inhaled his now-familiar scent. _I love him. I love him. I don't care if it's a cliché, if it's Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever. I just love him, and that's all._

After a moment, Douglas detached himself. His eyes were unusually bright in the dim illumination of the dashboard lights. "I think that's the bus coming up behind us. Off you go."

"All right." Martin's voice was hoarse. He gave Douglas a last beseeching look. _Please. Please._

"Goodbye, Martin," Douglas said quietly.

Martin's heart sank. It was over.

He opened the car door and got out. "Goodbye, Douglas." He shut the door. "I love you."

The bus pulled up to the kerb, and Martin got on, paid the fare, and found a seat. He slumped down and watched Douglas pull smoothly away and drive off. His throat was aching and his eyes still burned. He swiped at them angrily and rested his head against the window.

Not a soul gave him a second glance. He wasn't famous, wasn't more than a bland, forgettable face with tabloid headlines splashed across it, obscuring his features. Even if his story was ongoing, it was the story that mattered, not Martin Crieff. Nobody gave a damn about Martin Crieff.

Martin breathed on the window, making a cloud of condensation. On an impulse – a stupid, childish impulse – he traced Douglas' initials onto the glass. 

Back in the world, free again.

It felt bloody awful.

He sat staring out at the growing darkness until the bus arrived at his stop. He rose, feeling more weary than he'd ever felt in his life, and shuffled up the aisle. He thanked the driver and got off, then trudged toward his street. Gordon's street, Gordon's house.

Martin expected to see a phalanx of police cars round the house, but only Gordon's Land Rover sat in the drive. The front gate light was on, and a light burned in the front room, but otherwise the house was dark. Martin set his books in a little niche at the foot of the gatepost; he'd collect them when he left. He rummaged his keys from his pocket, unlocked the gate, and went up the drive to the house, struggling against an overwhelmingly oppressive tide of surging apprehension. He paused at the front door, then steeled himself, unlocked it, and went in.

The front hall was dark. Quietly, he closed the door behind him and went into the front room where the light had burned. It was empty, but a stack of computer equipment, lights blinking and wires snarled everywhere, stood in one corner, incongruous against the pale furniture and soft lighting.

_Probably in the library_. Martin went back into the hall and moved toward the library. Wouldn't it be funny if Gordon were entertaining someone? Maybe the someone (or someones) he'd taken to Monte Carlo? He was surprised to discover that he really didn't care.

The door was shut, so he knocked before entering – force of habit.

"I'm not through, Jaye. Come back in half an hour."

Martin opened the door. Gordon, wearing the same suit he'd worn to the city that morning, sat at his desk surrounded by paperwork. A plate of Hungarian goulash sat cooling beside him, and a half-empty bottle of wine reposed atop a thick stack of papers. The knot of Gordon's tie was pushed down, his laptop open and glowing, his hair awry. Once the sight had filled Martin with affection. Now he felt only weariness and a wish to be gone.

"Jaye, I _said_ \--"

"Hello, Gordon."

Gordon's head gave a violent jerk upwards. He stared at Martin in utter shock. All the colour drained from his face. "Jesus."

Martin stepped over the threshold. "Hi."

"Martin. What the fuck?"

"I'm home."

"I can see that." Gordon blinked. "How?"

"They let me go."

"I was at Warren Street Station this morning. Nobody showed."

Martin's mouth twisted a bit. "I think they changed their minds. They were afraid of security, of being caught by the police."

"Too fucking right. There were coppers every ten feet. They'd have blown that bastard's head clean off."

Martin leant against the door as weakness suffused his nervous system. Thank God. Thank God they'd left. "Well. I'm home."

"So you are." Gordon got to his feet and moved toward Martin. "You need a shave."

"I know."

Gordon stopped a metre or so away and scrutinised Martin carefully. "How did you get here?"

"They drove me. I was in a van, and they put a pillow case over my head. Then they took it off, pushed me out, and drove away. I tried to get a look at the number plate, but it was too late, they were too far away. It was a black van, though. I think. It might have been blue or green. I only saw it in the dark." _Oh God. Don't embellish._

Gordon's eyes narrowed. He bit his lip in thought. "Did anyone see you? Did you talk to anyone, police, reporters, anything?"

Martin shook his head. "No. I came here straight away."

"Good." Gordon let out an audible sigh. "Good." He deflated a bit, then gave Martin a huge smile and held his arms out. "Pet. Come here."

Stiff and reluctant, Martin took a step forward, and Gordon pulled him into his arms. He tried not to cringe as Gordon's arms wrapped round his body, and as a voice spoke in his ear.

"I'm so glad you're home."

 

*

 

Quimby Kelvin, whose title was Intelligence Researcher but whose duties spread far beyond his stated purview sat bored at his laptop, desultorily playing Assassin's Creed IV while waiting for the forensics lab results to come back. A good set of tyre prints had been lifted, and now there was nothing to do but wait, and play Assassins' Creed IV.

It was going pretty well. Edward's story was getting flipping dull, though. He was about ready to shut the game off and read a magazine or something. He sipped at his mochaccino, ready to pillage another port.

The phone rang; he caught it up before the second ring. "Kelvin."

"Quim, it's Joe."

He gritted his teeth. He _hated_ when people called him Quim. It was why he insisted on Kelvin.

"Got a match, Joe?"

"I don't sm – oh, ha ha, that's funny! Yeah, we got a match, and you'll never guess what."

"No, I never will. Tell me."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. "Oh. Yeah. Anyhow, yeah, we got a match. It's someone who knows Shappey. Big fucking coincidence."

"A lot of people know him and apparently he's got lots of friends, though I don't know why. All that money, I guess. What a prick."

"Yeah, well, anyway, whoever this is was lucky for a while, but not no more."

"Right. Send me what you've got ASAP." Kelvin hung up the phone and looked at his screen: Edward Kenway, sword in hand, about to board another ship. He unfroze the game and swung.

"Got you."

 

*


	13. Chapter 13

*

 

The clock in the hall struck half nine as Douglas walked in the door, and it seemed to him that the chime was unusually loud and oddly atonal. He made a mental note to have it inspected, and a second mental note that repairing a clock chime was one of the heretofore necessary and now completely frivolous domestic details he could no longer afford, not until he got another job, at any rate. Scratch that, then.

He clicked off the hall light and moved into the kitchen. The remnants of the last meal he and Martin had eaten were spread over the table and worktops: a salad of melon and cucumber and feta, cold chicken, and grilled asparagus. Martin, despite a rather long face, had eaten hugely of everything and offered to help clean up, but Douglas had demurred. Seemed wrong, somehow, to have Martin help tidy on his last day.

Mechanically, Douglas began to clear the table, scraping detritus into the bin and stacking the plates in the dishwasher. He turned the radio on and hummed along to some syrupy Chopin as he worked, sorting, neatening, wiping down. In half an hour he was through, standing in the middle of his spotless kitchen, twisting a tea towel in his hands. Time to head upstairs; he had a spy novel going, a bit naff but fun, and it would be nice to steam through a few dozen pages before settling down for the night.

As it happened, though, he wasn't tired at all. He gave a hesitant glance toward the basement and then grasped the doorknob and descended the stairs.

The basement was dim and damp and despite its profusion of furniture and boxes, terribly empty. Douglas gave a little sigh and began to strip the neatly made bed. He threw the bedding in the washer-dryer, gathered up the upsetting bits of frayed rope and tape and cotton that had constituted Martin's imprisonment, and pushed the furniture back to the edges of the room where it had sat for years and would probably sit for at least a few more, provided he kept the house. As he moved the bed his foot struck something that fell over with a noisy clatter. Douglas rolled the bed toward the wall and turned back to see the object.

It was a pottery mug, a battered old thing from the RAF museum, a gift from some seminar he'd attended years ago, and the only mug he owned with a flight motif. Stood to reason that Martin had chosen to drink out of it, flight-mad as he was. Douglas had never met anyone as enthused. It was endearing, in its way. Usually neat to a fault, Martin had no doubt failed to recall he'd left it on the floor. He'd tease Martin about it a bit later.

Sudden searing pain struck Douglas like a blow, so intense he had to grope for a chair and sit. For a moment he thought he was having some sort of coronary event; the pain was in his midsection, spreading up to his chest, and he couldn't quite get air. With shaking fingers, he sought out the artery of his inner wrist and took his pulse. A little rapid, but not alarmingly so. Frightened, he leant down with his head between his knees and waited for the sensation to pass. As he waited, he thought about Martin.

There would be no opportunity to tease him later; he was gone for good. Back to Gordon, at least temporarily – and Douglas wondered about that. As far as he'd been able to tell, Martin was so firmly entrenched in that relationship it was doubtful that he'd be capable of struggling out, especially once Gordon started in on him again. Gordon was a bastard, to be sure, but he was persuasive; he'd even managed to cajole Douglas into accepting a few lucrative-but-foolish commissions against his better judgment. Martin, God bless him, had been browbeaten for so long and so often that ceding to Gordon's demands was more instinct than exception.

The pain wasn't diminishing, and though Douglas tried to localise it, he couldn't. It pervaded his entire body and left him scared and oddly undone. He had his mobile in his pocket; he could dial 999 if he had to. He'd wait a bit more. If Martin had been with him, he probably would have fussed and hovered and asked a million questions. Bad chicken, perhaps? Stroke symptoms? Pulmonary emboli? 

Douglas groaned as the pain spiked again, hammering into his midsection, and then the truth struck him with astonishing force: it was Martin. Or rather, the loss of Martin. Douglas Richardson was in physical pain because he'd driven Martin Crieff, erstwhile kidnap victim, back home and out of his life.

A hollow, desolate chuckle forced its way up from his chest, hitching out of his throat and sounding nothing like an ordinary laugh. It was daft. It was _beyond_ daft. While Douglas admitted, if only to himself, that he had a romantic streak, it beggared belief to concede that he was so desperately in love that he actually felt ill. And desperately in love with Martin Crieff, oh God _of course_ he was.

It couldn't have been more inappropriate. And why, _why_ hadn't he taken Martin up on his offer of sex, clumsy as it was? Sex with Martin Crieff would likely have been pleasurable, the way most sex was, but also unduly labourious, with far too much effort spent on Douglas' part. In that way, though, he might have got Martin out of his system, and he'd have been able to move on. It had been months and months since he'd split up with Veronica; he wasn't so deeply lonely that he needed some sort of domestic replacement, some spouse substitute. What he thought of as love could have merely been physical passion.

_Bollocks._

The pain began to diminish. Douglas touched his midsection wonderingly. Of all the peculiar romantic clichés to experience.

Dragging himself out of the chair, Douglas went to the stairs, cradling the mug gently and toting a Tesco bag filled with assorted non-sexy bondage rubbish. As he ascended, he looked back at the now-clean basement. It was as if Martin had never been there at all.

Parting wasn't sweet sorrow. It was bloody awful.

 

*

 

The next morning – Saturday, a full week since he'd put the snatch on Martin – Douglas sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating toast while he read the paper. He hadn't an appetite for a larger breakfast. It seemed vaguely like one of the signs of impending elderly bachelorhood, but he hoped not. There was still lots of time before he became an old-age pensioner. _Sans_ pension, of course.

Drearily, he scanned the job adverts, not seeing anything remotely intriguing, and realising that what he'd told Martin was most likely true – if Gordon had his way, Douglas would never fly for a firm in the greater London area again. Vindictive bastard.

_Maybe I should have tried for the ransom after all._

The doorbell gave a long shrill. Douglas frowned up at the kitchen clock. Eight-thirty on a Saturday morning – who on earth? If it was a salesperson or canvasser, Douglas would give them a piece of his mind. Grumbling, he got up, tightened the belt of his dressing gown, thumped down the hall to the door, and threw it wide.

"Douglas Richardson?"

Douglas' heart gave a distinctly unpleasant lurch in his chest at the sight of a uniformed police officer and a woman who, though she wore plain clothes, was clearly some sort of police functionary as well, but he managed a pleasant smile. "That's right. Can I help you?"

"Yes, sir. I'm Detective Inspector Roy, and this is Sergeant Ackland. Could we have a word with you?"

"Certainly. Won't you come in?" Douglas stepped aside and held the door open, giving no sign that his heart was trip-hammering nastily. _Should have left days ago while you had the chance. Idiot._ He gestured toward the rarely-used sitting room. "Come in here, please." He was about to offer them coffee and then stopped himself, reckoning that an ordinary, innocent individual would want to know what their visit was all about at once. He waved a hand toward the sofa and opened the drapes, letting summer sunshine into the room. Casually, he sat, but didn't sprawl in his chair. "What can I do for you?"

Inspector Roy crossed her hands in her lap. "We're investigating the recent abduction of Martin Crieff."

"Oh, yes." Douglas nodded sombrely. "I know him slightly. I used to be employed by Gordon Shappey."

"Yes." Sergeant Ackland consulted a notepad. "You recently left his employ."

Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "Dismissed, actually."

"Is that right?" Inspector Roy asked. She had a nice smile.

"Yes."

"Can you tell me a bit about that, Mr. Richardson?"

"Why, yes. In the words of Mr. Shappey's solicitor, Hollis Barton, the global financial crisis forced Gordon to tighten his belt and let me go." Douglas' face felt warm. He hoped he wasn't flushed, or sweating.

"That must have been difficult to hear," DI Roy said sympathetically.

"Very difficult," Douglas replied with complete candour.

"I expect the news upset you very much."

Detective Inspector Roy was about as subtle as a skip filled with anvils bouncing down a steep hill. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Still, you're an experienced pilot. There must be great demand for your services."

"Not as great as you'd think," Douglas said, letting some genuine disillusionment slip into his voice. "In fact, I was just examining the job adverts. I might have to relocate, unfortunately."

"Oh, that's a shame," DI Roy murmured.

"You said you were investigating the abduction."

"Yes, that's right. Mr. Richardson, can you recall what you were doing last Saturday?"

Douglas paused for exactly five seconds, allowing his brow to furrow. Any intelligent person would realise that they were under suspicion, and he hoped he was conveying that epiphany adequately. "Yes, I think so. I did some gardening in the morning, then I read a book in the afternoon, and then I went to pick up some laundry and supper, then watched some television in the evening. Fairly typical Saturday since I've been unemployed."

"And where did you pick up laundry and supper?" Sergeant Ackland asked, his pen poised over his notebook.

"Ecce Camicia, on Grantham Street." Douglas breathed a secret sigh of relief. Ecce Camicia was his laundry, and it was just up the street from the wine merchant that Martin frequented. And he _had_ picked his laundry up on Saturday, though it had been in the early afternoon. He hoped the receipts didn't have time stamps.

"That's a bit far for laundry," Sergeant Ackland observed. A regular Hercule Poirot, was Sergeant Ackland.

"They do a beautiful job on my shirts," Douglas said. "Crisp as new paper, really superior." He looked at DI Roy. "Am I under suspicion, Detective Inspector?" His armpits felt damp.

"Mr. Richardson, we obtained a positive match of tyre prints that confirms that you were in the area, though we can only estimate the day on which it happened. There were glass shards in the tyres as well. The shards match the glass of the wine bottles that Mr. Crieff customarily buys, that he did in fact purchase last Saturday evening, according to the salesman at the off-licence." DI Roy consulted her own notebook. "Um…."

"Doonan's," Douglas supplied helpfully.

"Yes, thanks. Doonan's." DI Roy scrutinised Douglas carefully. "Of course there's no way to determine if the particular bottle Mr. Crieff purchased broke in a struggle or pursuit – the kidnappers very well might have taken the wine themselves – but it's a coincidence that we must pursue. What time did you pick up your laundry, Mr. Richardson?"

Douglas' heart pounded so rapidly and heavily he was surprised the police officers couldn't hear it. "About half four, I believe. I haven't got my laundry receipt, but I suppose they've got a copy somewhere and can verify it."

"I notice you've got a basement," Sergeant Ackland said.

It was difficult to prevent a cynical little smile, but Douglas managed, just. Evidently they'd been creeping about the property before ringing the bell. "Yes…?"

"I wonder if you'd mind if we took a quick look."

Now this was illegal unless Douglas was mistaken, but he had to tread carefully. He frowned. "Have you got a warrant?"

"No, we haven't, Mr. Richardson," DI Roy replied with a small smile. "If you chose to show us your basement, you'd be doing so of your own volition."

Weakness born of relief suffused Douglas' limbs, and he nodded, feigning deep thought, to give himself a bit of time. Thank God he'd cleaned last night. Thank God. The Richardson luck had returned, if only temporarily. "I suppose there's no harm in it," he said, getting to his feet. "Come along."

He led them through the hall and into the kitchen, past the table with its spread-open newspaper and now-cold coffee. He opened the basement door, clicked on the light, and nodded. "Here we are."

"Go ahead, Mr. Richardson," DI Roy said with a smile.

Douglas returned the smile and descended. _I wonder if she thought I was planning to push them down the stairs._ He waited for them to join him and clasped his sweating hands behind his back. "I suppose you'll want to look about."

"Just a bit. If you don't mind."

_I suppose I can mention this in the court case someday._ Douglas nodded pleasantly. "Not at all." His gaze swept the room quickly, seeking out some remnant of Martin's visit, something he'd carelessly missed, but everything seemed to be in order. He stepped aside and let the police look about, their torches playing over the old furniture, the cartons, the stacks of Sophie's childhood books she'd begged Douglas not to bin until she got her own flat.

DI Roy and Sergeant Ackland poked and prodded, but took care not to displace anything. At length, as if by some unspoken agreement, they clicked off their torches and turned to Douglas. "Thank you, Mr. Richardson," Roy said. "I think that's everything."

"I take it you haven't found him," Douglas said. It was odd, but perhaps a wise decision to refrain from announcing Martin's return until the kidnappers had been caught. Surely they were acting upon their own counsel; Martin wouldn't have betrayed him, and if he had done, he'd have told them outright that Douglas was the kidnapper, not hinted around it. Actually, thinking about it, it made no sense at all. But he couldn't drop his guard.

"No, not yet. And they seem to be a desperate lot. But make no mistake – we have an excellent retrieval record. We _will_ find them," Roy said with assurance, though a deep furrow appeared between her dark brows. " _And_ Mr. Crieff."

Interesting. Either Detective Inspector Roy was a superlative actor, or she was genuinely aggrieved and frustrated. Douglas put his money on aggrieved and frustrated. "I do hope so. He's a very nice chap."

"We won't take any more of your time, Mr. Richardson. Thank you for your assistance."

"Not at all. Anything I can do to help," he said, and led them back up the stairs and escorted them to the door. "I assume you're pursuing all leads. Besides me, that is."

"I'm not really at liberty to discuss anything in detail, Mr. Richardson, but we're doing all we can. I'd like to ask you not to leave the country immediately, please. I can't force you, obviously," Roy said, with a wry smile, "but until Mr. Crieff is located and rescued, we'd like to stay in contact with anyone even remotely connected with the case."

"Can I ask you if Mr. Shappey intimated that I was more than _remotely_ connected?" Douglas couldn't keep a twist of irony out of his voice.

"No, Mr. Richardson. We're simply, as you say, pursuing all possible leads."

Not a superlative actor.

Roy and Ackland bade him a good morning and departed. Douglas closed the door quietly, then went back to the kitchen and sank into his chair, dragging his fingers through his hair.

Gordon hadn't reported Martin's return to the police. Why, for God's sake?

Surely nothing had happened between the bus stop and Gordon's house. Martin seemed to be phenomenally unlucky, but surely he wouldn't have been kidnapped again – even for Martin, that would have been too much of a coincidence. Car accident? Perhaps Martin hadn't been conscious to give his name? Douglas rifled through the newspaper, looking for some report of a man struck by a car in Fitton, some mishap, some evidence of Martin's re-emergence into the world. Nothing.

Douglas longed to get in the car and drive past Gordon's house, just to see if there was any sign of activity. He couldn't, though; he was still under suspicion, DI Roy's smiles and assurances notwithstanding, and there was absolutely no way he was going to attract the wrong sort of attention to himself if he could help it.

He had to do _something_ , though.

The hall clock, loud and atonal, struck nine. Over twelve hours since Martin had returned home.

Something was wrong.

 

*

 

Douglas pulled the Lexus smoothly into the slot and cut the engine. He held his keys tightly in the palm of his hand and absently caressed the wheel. He'd managed to stave off a polite-but-pointed letter from the Lexus dealership by hand-delivering a cheque, though that had just about wiped his bank account clean. He'd have to put the house on the market, he supposed. At least it had been paid off five years ago; still, he hated to give it up, if only because it held so many lovely memories from Sophie's childhood.

Poor Sophie. She'd be upset, but once she found out about Douglas' insolvency she'd be nothing but supportive, lovely, generous, good-hearted girl that she was. At least he didn't have to leave her under unpleasant circumstances. Not to say that the mess mightn't come back and bite him in the bum.

He exited the car, pocketed his keys, and strolled toward the Portakabin without glancing over his shoulder. He was reasonably certain that he'd been tailed, probably a smart thing to do under the circumstances. 

The Portakabin held only two occupants: Herc Shipwright and Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. A decidedly unconventional pair of lovebirds, but who needed convention? "Herc. Carolyn."

"Douglas!" Herc, far too smooth and handsome for his own good, extended a hand and shook Douglas' warmly. "Don't tell me you've come to switch dates again."

"To cancel, actually," Douglas replied, sitting down. He hadn't wanted to risk a discussion of a flight abroad on the telephone. "And to see how the place is holding up without me."

"Oh, why am I not surprised? Still, no harm done. You know Carolyn, of course."

"Naturally," Douglas said. "How are you? It's been a long time. Lucerne, wasn't it?"

"Christmas. Three years ago," Carolyn said with a brisk nod, and turned to Herc. "I had the temerity to tag along on a flight – Arthur too. Gordon couldn't say no because it wasn't any skin off his nose nor money from his pocketbook, but we managed to throw a spanner into his works all the same. He threw me death glares the entire flight, and so did the paid companion he'd towed along."

"How very naughty of you," Herc said with an appealing crinkle of the eyes.

"That was his first Christmas with Martin, not that Martin actually spent Christmas Day with him. I expect you've heard, Douglas."

Douglas' heart leapt. "Heard? Has he been rescued?"

"Oh, no, I meant heard that he'd been kidnapped. Poor Martin – such a nervous, fussy thing. I can't imagine him keeping a cool head in a situation like that."

True as that was, Douglas felt the need to defend him. "I think he's got some inner resources of strength. I'm sure he'll be okay. So…you haven't heard anything new?"

"If there was anything new to tell, I'd be the last to hear. My communication with Gordon is chiefly limited to mutual insults these days, though that may change at some point in the not-too-distant future." Carolyn's eyes gleamed. "I might as well tell you, since you're a recent victim of Gordon's machinations – my solicitor's been doing a bit of digging, and I do believe my maintenance agreement is due for refurbishment."

"That's –" Momentarily distracted, Douglas frowned. "Did he _tell_ you he'd sacked me?"

"Certainly not. I simply know the man, though goodness knows I'd prefer not to. He'd been grumbling about your salary for a few years, Douglas. I'm rather surprised you didn't see it coming."

"You might have warned me," Douglas returned tartly.

"I generally prefer to pay people the compliment of letting them fight their own battles. That said, I'm sorry it happened, but who knows – I may be hiring you for a job now and then if this turns out the way I think it might."

Douglas gave Carolyn a wry smile. "You don't want Captain Handsome here to fly you to exotic locales?" 

"Heavens, no. What a very odd idea." Without bothering to explain exactly why it was odd, she launched into her next idea. "I must say things don't look very good for Gordon."

"You don't suppose he actually engineered his own husband's abduction?" Herc asked.

"Gordon would sell his own mother if she were still alive, and I wouldn't put it past him to peddle her bones if he thought they would turn some sort of profit. You didn't hear this from me – actually, I don't care if he knows. His finances are most decidedly not in order, and if Martin dies –" Carolyn shook her head. "Arthur saw the paperwork. Never mind the kidnap insurance – the papers and television made too much fuss about that. Martin's life insurance policy is in the tens of millions. That would pull Gordon out of his slump without any appreciable loss."

"Good God," Douglas said, his blood chilling. "Can he claim that much?"

"He's Gordon's husband. Net worth and all that. I don't mind telling you I fear for the boy."

"Glad _you're_ not married to him anymore," Herc commented dryly.

Douglas wet his parched lips. "You don't think he's capable of murder, though, or of hiring someone to do Martin in. Surely not."

Carolyn shrugged eloquently. "He's incapable of love. Not in an abstract, hearts-and-flowers interpretation that's shorthand for some sort of stoic personality. I mean he's incapable of actual human tenderness, and his treatment of Martin tells. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Douglas."

A hot flush rose to Douglas' face. "I did. I didn't…that is, I hadn't put two and two together until now, though."

"The kidnapping's submerged the financial scandal, but I expect it'll all resurface soon enough," Carolyn said. "Were it not for Arthur, the state of Gordon's finances would still be uninvestigated."

Douglas sat back in his chair. "Are you telling me that Arthur - _Arthur_ \- was the press leak, Carolyn?"

A rather smug smile crossed Carolyn's face. "Yes. He's not entirely foolish, as it turns out. And he's quite frightened on Martin's behalf as well."

"Well, God bless him," Douglas murmured. He wished with all his heart he could tell Carolyn the truth. "That means Martin's in real danger, then."

"Well, _naturally_ he's in real danger, Douglas!" Carolyn snapped. "Good Lord."

"No, I mean –" Douglas winced. "There hasn't been any news from Gordon's end of things."

"I suppose they're monitoring things, but so much of that stuff is possible with remote relays," Herc said, picking up the newspaper. "Still, no news today."

Anxiety tightened cold bands of steel round Douglas' heart. "They've got to do _something_ \- be more aggressive." He couldn't shake the feeling that Martin was in real trouble, and Carolyn's news made matters even more ominous. Something else occurred to him. "I don't suppose your solicitor could make some sort of emergency move against him. If…if something happens, and he's arrested, his assets might be frozen."

"Yes," Carolyn said flatly. "She mentioned that. Certainly time is of the essence. Perhaps I should pay him a visit and persuade him to make some adjustments in exchange for Martin's life and my silence."

Herc scowled. "Not on your own, you're not."

"Aren't you gallant," Carolyn remarked. "You could always come with me. You're not leaving until tomorrow morning."

"I reckon I could," Herc said thoughtfully.

Douglas got to his feet. "I've got to be going. Sorry about the flight nonsense, Herc." He shook Herc's hand.

"Not at all. Look here, I'd be happy to give you some sort of reference, if you like."

Normally it would have galled Douglas to accept favours from Herc, but just lately his mental and emotional, not to mention his financial resources needed a leg up. "Thanks, I'd appreciate that. So long." He strolled out as nonchalantly as he could and forced himself to maintain a leisurely pace to the car, and a sedate speed merging back onto the motorway.

When he got home, though, he saw he'd gripped the wheel hard enough to bruise his hands.

 

*

 

The day had darkened with agonising slowness, and Douglas couldn't keep still. He paced his house, and when the house couldn't contain him, he paced the back garden, unwilling to risk going for a walk and eliciting possible police attention.

He pounded back into the kitchen and opened the fridge, thinking he might eat something to calm himself a bit, but nothing appealed. Shutting the door with a bang, he went into the lounge and flipped through the channels, searching for some scrap of new information. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

_God damn it all, Martin._

There was no-one he could call, nobody to offer a word of comfort. Except Martin, and he couldn't risk dialling Martin's number.

Could he?

"Hell with it," he muttered, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

No rings – the call went straight to Martin's voice mail. "Hi…erm, this is Martin Crieff. Leave a message, please. Thank you. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you. Bye."

Douglas cancelled the call and stood in the middle of the lounge, paralysed by frustration. He thought for a bit, closing his eyes. A shiver went up his spine. 

A moment later, he'd grabbed his keys and left the house.

 

*

 

Gordon's house was dark except for a light on the second floor. Douglas slowed as he approached. What on earth would he tell the police if they stopped him? _Oh, hello, Constable. Yes, just playing a little bit of Sherlock Holmes, investigating the disappearance of my former employer's husband. What's that? Why? Good question. Funny story behind that, actually._

Christ.

He got out of the car, fighting an increasing sense of self-destruction, and walked up to the gate. It was locked, and the house was utterly silent. Shaking his head – what was he _doing_ , for God's sake? – he walked the length of the gate, and then back, and stopped. Frowning, he switched on his little portable torch and shone it at the gatepost.

Tucked in a niche were the books he'd given Martin. He pulled one out and examined the cover.

_The Air Pilot's Manual: Flying Training v. 1: Flying Training Vol 1 (Air Pilots Manual 01)_.

He ran his fingertips over the cover, and then froze at a muted crash of noise from the house.

_What in God's name –_

There was another noise – a short, sharp cry.

Martin's voice. Had to be. Oh, dear God. What was going on in there?

Douglas rushed to the gate and tugged on the lock. It held firmly, its silvery solidity gleaming in smug, triumphant security. Wretched thing.

He pulled again as he heard another crashing noise, and looked around. If there was any time to _need_ the police, it was now, but the street was silent, dark, and thoroughly empty. Damn it all!

Desperate, he craned his neck upwards. The gate was perhaps two metres high. Difficult, if not impossible.

_Hold on, Martin. Hold on._

 

*


	14. Chapter 14

*

 

"Gordon. Gordon…." Martin tried to extricate himself from Gordon's grasp, but it was proving difficult. Impossible, actually. Finally he put his hands on Gordon's upper arms and pushed himself away. Forcing himself to look Gordon in the eye, he spoke slowly and distinctly. "Gordon, we've got to talk."

"I should say we do, pet." Gordon tried to pull Martin into another embrace, but Martin took a quick step back. Gordon frowned. "What's wrong? I expect you’ll want to call the police right away."

“Yes….” _Not really, actually._ Martin took a deep breath. "But I've got to talk to you, and I-I've got to do it while I've still got the nerve. Could you sit down?" Gordon stared at him, his eyes narrowing, and Martin tried again. "Please?"

Gordon went back to his desk chair and sat. "All right. I'm listening."

"I've had a lot of…wait, let me back up a bit. This past week has been…scary."

"I expect it has," Gordon said coolly.

"Yes. I felt very, erm, alone. And frightened and uncertain."

Gordon laced his fingers together and rested them on his abdomen. "Yes."

"I think it's possible, for me at any rate, that that sort of experience can make you re-evaluate things, if you know what I mean. Well, the thing is, as I was saying, I've had a lot of time to think about…my life, I suppose, and our relationship, and so on."

Deep furrows laddered Gordon's brow, but he said nothing.

_Just say it. Go on. Say it!_ Martin took another deep breath and let his words out on the exhale. "I'm not staying, Gordon."

Gordon tilted his head inquisitively to one side. "You're…not staying."

"Right. I can't."

"Are you suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder?"

Martin shook his head and took off his jacket. He sat on the sofa and scrubbed a hand up his unshaven face. "No. I mean, I might be, but it isn't impairing my judgment or anything. Gordon, look. I'm going to go upstairs and pack a bag and call a taxi. I'll stay in a hotel tonight. We can discuss details later this week if you'd like, but right now I've just got to be alone for a bit and get my head sorted out."

"Aha!" Gordon's expression was sourly triumphant. "You _do_ have post-traumatic stress disorder."

"Please, Gordon. I'm quite serious."

"All right." Gordon leant forward, elbows on the desk, hands tightly folded. "Am I allowed to ask _why_ you're leaving, or are you planning to keep that information to yourself?"

"N-no, I'll tell you." A hot blush crept up Martin's neck. "I don't think that you…you value me. It's not that I blame you," he went on hastily, "not completely, not altogether. It's just that I don't think we've been very happy together for a while now."

"Don't value you?" Gordon echoed quietly. He shook his head, and a small smile twisted his mouth upward. "Where's that coming from, if I may ask?"

Martin stood his ground. "It's true. I'm sorry, but it is."

"I've fed you, sheltered you, clothed you, given you every sort of luxury for years…." Gordon's face was turning red. Picking up a paper clip, he bent it back and forth until it snapped. "I was prepared to pay two million pounds to get you back – to save your _life_ , or have you conveniently managed to forget that?"

"After you were under suspicion!" Martin shouted, and slapped the tufted leather of the chesterfield hard enough to hurt his hand. Tears began to well in his eyes, not from pain but from anger and humiliation and resentment. "Before that you said you didn't have that sort of cash – one million, not two, and I know you could have got your hands on it if you'd really wanted to, I _know_ you could have done, and you said you didn't negotiate with terrorists. And you didn't even call the bloody police until after you thought I was dead!" Martin swiped furiously at his nose.

Gordon stood up. "Is that what you think?"

"That's what I _know_." Martin stood up as well. He wasn't going to be intimidated by Gordon's greater physical size or strength. Not anymore. "I-I was feeling abandoned, and helpless, and scared half out of my wits, and the only reassurance I got from you was you saying you didn't negotiate with terrorists. You didn't show the first time, and I thought…I don't even remember what I thought, but I made excuses for you. And then I made more excuses for you, the way I've always done. You're – you're _awful_ , Gordon. You're an awful person, and I should have listened to Carolyn ages ago and left you. Well, I'm not staying here tonight, or any night thereafter, and you can just s-sod off." Martin turned and marched toward the door. He groped for the handle through a haze of furious tears.

Gordon was beside him in an instant. He grabbed Martin's wrist and yanked it upward.

Martin cringed, then wrenched his arm away. "Don't you hit me. Don't you dare. I'll go to the police, I swear I will."

"I'm not going to hit you." Gordon held his hands up, palms out. "I'm not going to hit you. I just want to talk. That's all." He stepped back. "You've had your say. I think it's only fair that I get a chance to defend myself and explain a few things to you. Will you give me that chance, Martin?"

Hadn't he heard this sort of reasonable talk from Gordon before? He was sure he had. It didn't matter, though. Gordon could say whatever he liked – Martin was still leaving, and no question. "All right. But it won't change anything."

"Fine. I just want to say a few things, and then we can part amicably. Please – sit down." Gordon gestured toward the chesterfield, and Martin sat on the edge. Gordon took a wing chair opposite. "First of all, I need to explain about the money. I haven't been completely honest with you, Martin."

_There's a shock._ Martin folded his arms. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the truth is, the financial picture isn't quite as rosy as I tend to paint it. It's always ups and downs in my line of work, you know that, but lately there have been a lot more downs than ups."

"It's always like that, though," Martin said with a frown. "That's what you always say, anyhow."

"Yes, but I've taken some fairly hard hits this fiscal year. I…the fact is, I've had to liquidate some of our assets to meet my obligations. And…well, you remember how I told you that Douglas Richardson quit?"

Martin forced his face to remain perfectly still. "Yes?"

"Actually, he didn't quit. I sacked him. And I admit I was a bit brutal about it. I simply couldn't afford to keep a full-time pilot on staff. I might have to sell the jet, too. Might as well, if I haven't got a pilot to operate the bloody thing."

"Why did you lie about that?" Martin heard the frostiness in his own voice and tried to warm it up a bit, but he couldn't help himself.

"Because it was a bit sudden, and I knew you loved flying and I hated to disappoint you."

"I rather think Mr. Richardson was more disappointed than I was." _And I love flying, but not as a passenger. You'll never understand that. Never._

"Possibly, but I gave him a nice severance package, and he's got his pension, of course. I'm not a complete monster."

A knot of anger pinched Martin's midsection. How many lies was Gordon planning to tell? "So you really couldn't get your hands on the cash."

"No, I couldn't. If you knew how I scrambled, trying to scrape it up from anywhere. And the police – that's the other thing. I called them the moment I rang off that first night. God, Martin – all I could think of was that photo of you, and the fear in your voice. I was in agony, don't you see? I can't imagine how I must have sounded, but I was numb with shock. It was terrible for me."

"It was pretty terrible for me, too," Martin replied.

"I know." Gordon stood and moved to the chesterfield, sitting a short distance from Martin. "I envisioned all sorts of dreadful scenarios. Whilst the police hunted for clues, I couldn't keep myself from thinking about what they were doing to you. Taunting you, starvation, beatings, torture…." Gordon smiled. "I suppose I let my imagination run away with itself. Thank God you appear to be all right. Did they hurt you, by the way?"

Martin shook his head. "No. He – erm, the person who brought me food and water and let me use the loo – he was…." He thought a moment. "He was brusque, but not totally heartless."

"I'm grateful for that, at least. They sounded like a rough lot. How many were there?"

"Three, I think. I was, erm, blindfolded a lot."

Gordon nodded. "About what I said, Martin. To the kidnappers. I was so furious with them, so angry, and the police had assured me that they'd rescue you, because their rate of victim retrieval is so high – I cocked it up. I admit that, and I'm sorry. I thought that being tough would intimidate them, and I should have been thinking about you. You must have felt…I can't even think how badly you must have felt after that." Gordon shook his head and clasped his hands together. "That was my fault. I'm sorry."

Martin sighed. Gordon might have been telling the truth. He'd had more than his fair share of moments of machismo, often at Martin's expense. "Well, it's all…actually, don't you see, Gordon, that when you get so angry it's n-not good for anybody. They were so angry, I thought they were going to kill me right then and there."

Gordon hung his head. "I know. I know. Look here, Martin, I don't…what if I promised to get counselling, love?" Tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on Martin's knee.

Gently but firmly Martin removed Gordon's hand. "I'm sorry. It's too late for that. I'm sorry, I really am."

"It wasn't all bad, was it, pet?" Gordon looked at Martin beseechingly. 

Martin shook his head. "No, it wasn't all bad. But we can't go back and change it now." _And I'm in love with someone else. Even if I never see him again._ "We've been married for years and you never told me the truth about your finances. I might have helped, if you'd have let me."

"With Icarus Removals?" Gordon exhaled heavily. "Forgive me, Martin, but you were scarcely supporting yourself with that little scheme. I doubt you'd have made much of a dent."

"But I could have helped with the bills, the groceries, something."

"You _might_ have been able to pay the electricity bill, but your wages wouldn't stretch much further than that. I'm not placing blame, pet. I _wanted_ you to have nice things, to live comfortably. And I didn't want to burden you with something you'd never have understood and that changed from moment to moment. It might still, you know."

"I'm sorry," Martin said. "Maybe…maybe if you did get help, you'd…what I mean is that it's too late for us, it's too late for Carolyn and you, but I'm sure there will be someone else, someone wonderful, and if – if you weren't angry, you could make a real go of it." He watched Gordon's mouth tighten, and rushed on. "And there's Arthur. God, Gordon, he loves you so much. It's – he still needs his dad. My own dad didn't think much of my ambitions, but I knew he loved me just the same. And I loved him. There's still time, Gordon." Hesitantly, he touched Gordon's arm, and Gordon grasped his hand tightly. Martin winced, but didn't pull away.

Gordon stared down at the floor, holding Martin's hand, and didn't speak for a long time. At last he looked up at Martin. "You're sure?"

"Yes." As he said that one tiny word, a glorious sensation of freedom suffused him. He was out. It would be a clean break – he wouldn't demand maintenance. Maintenance involved too high a price – a monthly reminder of how foolishly he'd spent the last few years. They'd simply cut ties, and Martin would be free. Poor, but free.

Resignedly, Gordon nodded. "All right. You've certainly changed, pet. I'm sorry about it. Sorry about all this."

_I've changed for the better. Not your doormat anymore._ "I know it must be hard to hear, Gordon, but it's true. I'm glad, at least, that I didn't end up costing you two million pounds. I don't think you'd ever be able to forgive me for that, on top of your other financial burdens." _Or ever fail to remind me of it._

"I love you, and I'd have paid it willingly. Someday, perhaps, you'll realise that." Gordon got to his feet. "Listen, pet. Don't leave tonight. No, listen. I know you haven't got a penny in your pocket. You can't afford a hotel. Just stay in one of the guest rooms, and when you're ready to go, you can go. But stay a few days, at least. It would…it's rather selfish of me, but try to think of how that would look, if you left immediately after the kidnap. I already look rather bad thanks to the press. I'm begging you not to make it worse. One last favour to me, pet. Please."

Martin hesitated. He wanted to leave immediately, with no delays wherein Gordon might try to persuade him to stay, as he'd done more than a few times already. But Martin had never laid down the law so resolutely. Things were different now. He'd stay a few days, and then…then he'd find Douglas before he left for Tangier or wherever. Douglas cared for him, a little at least – Martin _knew_ he did, even if Douglas had refused to take advantage of the situation and Martin's vulnerability, a thing which, in retrospect, Martin found he admired very much. They didn't have to move in together or anything. They could start over. Start as friends. And then, whatever happened…happened.

He could wait a few days for the rest of his life.

Slowly, he nodded. "All right. I'll take the guest room at the end of the hall."

Gordon seemed to sag with relief. "Good."

"But I'm _not_ staying, Gordon. I plan to be out permanently by Wednesday latest. I-I need you to respect that."

"All right. Could I ask something else in return?"

"What?" Martin asked warily.

"I've been besieged by journalists and paparazzi lately. They've been driving me mad."

"There wasn't anybody outside the house when I came home."

"They'll be back. It's a pattern. One day on, one day off. At any rate, I'd like to ask you to keep a low profile for the next few days – don't leave the house, they'll jump on you, and you've been through enough just lately. I'm going to call the police and ask them to stop by tomorrow, and I expect we'll need to make a press statement at some point, but I just need a bit of decompression. Just until tomorrow night or the next morning. All right?"

"All right," Martin said. "That's reasonable, I reckon. I wasn't exactly planning to go clubbing or anything anyhow."

Gordon chuckled. "Right."

Martin remembered his books and got up. "Oh – I left something outside. I'll just go and grab it." He'd have left them, but the skies threatened rain and he didn't want to damage Douglas' gift.

"I'll go," Gordon said, heading to the door. "What is it? Where'd you leave it?"

_God, no._ He couldn't risk Gordon seeing the books. What if Douglas' name were written inside? "Oh, erm…." Martin dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Oh. Never mind. I thought I dropped this inside the gate." He'd have to sneak them inside tomorrow night, or find a safer place for them until he left. "I'm going to have a shower. Good night, Gordon."

Gordon moved toward Martin and gently enfolded him into an embrace. "I'm so glad you're safe, pet."

Martin stiffened, then yielded. Maybe it _had_ been rough for Gordon too. It didn't change things between them, but Martin found it in his heart to feel at least a tiny bit of compassion for the man he'd been married to for three years, who had provided for him the best way he knew how. He could afford compassion. He was free. Carefully, he patted Gordon's back. "Thank you."

Gordon let him go and opened the door. "Up you go. I didn't hear Jaye go out, did you?"

"Her car wasn't in the drive, and the gate was locked. She's gone for the night, I suppose."

"Ah. I didn't realise. I'll have her prepare something special for us tomorrow. Homecoming."

It wasn't his home any longer, but Martin only smiled. "That would be nice."

"Good night, pet."

Martin smiled at Gordon, relieved. It could have been so much worse. "Good night, Gordon."

 

*

 

Gordon waited until he heard the shower running, and then dialled Jaye's number, getting her answerphone. _Good. Good._ "Jaye, it's Mr. Shappey. I'm getting some sort of flu, I think – I've got chills and fever, so I think it's best that you stay home tomorrow. I'll pay you for the day, of course." _Freeloading bint._ "I know you'll worry, but don't – I'll have Gavin drive me to Dr. Weybridge. Thanks. If you need anything, call my mobile, I'll probably be in bed all day." _Note to self: don't let Martin answer land line_. "Thanks, Jaye. 'Bye."

He rang off and glanced through the doorway. The shower was still running, but he took the precaution of closing and locking the door. Then he went to his desk, sat down, and took another mobile from his desk, a cheap flip phone purchased only the day before yesterday. He dialled another number and waited for a voice to answer.

"It's Shappey. Yes. You remember what we talked about? Yes, of course. No. No. It's…it's back on. It's a go. Tomorrow evening. You have the key. Yes, absolutely. We'll discuss that tomorrow evening. Right. Right. See you then."

Gordon closed the mobile and placed it back in the drawer. He slid the drawer shut and drew a deep breath to combat his sudden lightheadedness. Distantly aware that he was sweating, he passed a hand over his brow.

_Get help._

_You can sod off._

_I should have left you years ago._

Miserable, ungrateful little _fuck_.

So Gordon was awful, was he? Martin didn't know the meaning of awful.

Not yet.

 

*

 

The day had passed with a speed that could only be described as glacial. Martin did as Gordon had asked and hadn't left the house. He'd slept late, eaten breakfast, showered again, and pottered around the house, picking up his possessions. There weren't many; books, mostly, a framed photo of his family, an RAF fridge magnet Arthur had given him last year. Anything else amounted to clothes and toiletries and the watches and jewellery Gordon had given him over the years. He intended to sell the jewellery for whatever he could get, but if he told Gordon that, no doubt Gordon would demand it back.

Although, Martin had to admit, Gordon was being unusually pleasant. He'd stayed home from work, and though he'd spent the greater part of the day in the library, now and then he'd pop into whatever room Martin was occupying and chat. 

Now, as Martin was sorting through some boxes in the garage, Gordon drifted in, rubbing his hands together, a sure sign he was agitated. "What are you up to?"

Martin looked up from his search and smiled. "Oh – hi. Me? Just going through some things. I think there's a box of models somewhere in here. I was sure I'd labelled it." Martin's model planes, like most of Martin's pre-Gordon possessions, hadn't been deemed worthy of display in Gordon's professionally (and a bit stuffily, in Martin's opinion, but that was neither here nor there) decorated house. Not that his few things would have made much difference, but Gordon was immovable on the subject of interior design. On most things, really.

"You're making a mess."

"I'll tidy up," Martin promised, then regretted it. He should have nonchalantly ignored Gordon, but honestly, there was no point in making waves now.

"It's just that I can have your things sent to you. You needn't get all mucky."

Martin found the box he'd been seeking and dragged it out, then rose from his crouch and dusted his hands on his jeans. "That's thoughtful of you, Gordon, thanks. But there's no need. I've only got a few boxes."

"I saw you've packed your clothes." Gordon leant against the bonnet of his Land Rover. "You're not planning to leave tomorrow, are you?"

"Well…tomorrow or the next day, really," Martin replied. "I think it's probably best that way."

"Eager to start your new life."

Martin pressed his lips together, struck by what Gordon had said. _New life_. Suppose he was just repeating a pattern, going from a rich older man to another, less rich older man? Was he setting himself up for disappointment and heartache again? But Douglas wasn't Gordon, Martin reminded himself, and there wasn't even a guarantee that Douglas would want him for a boyfriend. He mustn't hang all his expectations upon Douglas Richardson. Tempting as it was. "Yes, I reckon so. Gordon, about maintenance and things like that –"

"Another time," Gordon said with a wave of his hand. "When we've both had some space to think about things."

"It's just that I wasn't planning to ask for –"

"Another time," Gordon repeated. He looked down at the box at Martin's feet. "Model planes. Some things never change, do they?"

Martin stiffened at the contempt in Gordon's voice. He picked up the box and moved past Gordon. "No, they don't."

He took the box into the guest room and laid it carefully on the floor. He'd open it another time, well out of Gordon's sight. Gordon was trying to be kind, as kind as he could be, but he was right – some things never changed.

 

*

 

Gordon made dinner – frozen pizza, but it tasted nice. Martin polished his off quickly. He planned to head upstairs early, wait until Gordon had gone to bed, and then slip out for his books. He could pack them in one of the bin bags that held some sundry stuff, and maybe read a bit before bed as well. "That was great, thanks, Gordon. Where's Jaye?"

"She phoned this morning. She wasn't feeling well, so I told her to stay home."

"That was nice of you." And unusual. Ordinarily Gordon complained at the least inconvenience. Martin yawned hugely and got to his feet, collecting plates and glasses. "I'll wash up. Then I think I'll turn in – I'm pretty tired."

"All right." The doorbell rang, and Gordon shot up from the table. "I'll get it."

"I thought the gate was locked?" Martin called on his way to the kitchen, and then shrugged when Gordon didn't reply. He opened the dishwasher and stacked the plates, glasses, and cutlery inside, and added a soap capsule. He turned the machine on and wiped up the few crumbs on the dining room table.

"Martin." Gordon came back into the kitchen, followed by a tall, barrel-chested man with a ginger beard. He wore black from head to foot and even a black watch cap – odd, for summer. "This is Detective Sergeant Simmons."

"Hi, Martin." Simmons took a step forward and shook Martin's hand. "It's good to meet you. I'm glad you're safe and sound. I spoke to Mr. Shappey earlier, and we're going to have to ask you some questions. I hope that's all right."

Martin crossed his arms over his chest. _Stick to the basics. You didn't see much, you couldn't hear much, there were three of them and a dark van. Be vague about everything._ "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

"Great," Simmons said, and smiled so widely Martin wondered what would have happened if he'd said no. "I understand you might be feeling a bit vulnerable, but we'll do our best to make you comfortable. We've got a debriefing centre in Luton – sort of a safe house, with all the latest tech toys."

"All right." Martin wiped his hands on a tea towel. "Should I pack a bag?"

"No, no need – you'll only be there for ten or twelve hours. Bring whatever you had with you on the night of the kidnap, though – we'll need to look at it for evidence."

"Okay. I'll be right back." Martin ran upstairs and found his phone and wallet and the jacket he'd worn last Saturday evening. His other clothes were in the laundry hamper – a good thing, since he didn't want them finding random particles from Douglas' house. After a moment's thought he dropped the jacket back on the bed and hastily yanked the rubber case from his phone, tossing it to the floor. He wiped down the face of the phone and stuck it in his pocket, then wiped off his wallet for good measure, though he couldn't recall Douglas touching it. He stuck both items in his pockets and blew out a quick breath, then went to close the window – the guest room had been stuffy, and had needed a good airing.

The night sky was an orange-purple colour, heralding rain. Martin stuck his head out the window and caught sight of a car in the drive. It was a Subaru or Toyota, dark, and looked at least ten years old. _That_ was Detective Sergeant Simmons' car? Well, maybe he didn't make much money, or maybe it was one of those undercover cars. Martin hadn't spotted the policewoman in the green mac at the ransom drop – he wasn't a dab hand at observation. Still, it was odd. And it was in the drive and Simmons had rung the doorbell – so Gordon had given the police his entry code, apparently. That was odd, for Gordon; he'd been reluctant about giving Martin the code, let alone a stranger. Maybe he _had_ been distraught after all.

Martin descended the stairs and heard a half-whispered conversation in the kitchen. Simmons sounded angry; Martin hoped Gordon wasn't antagonising him.

"Half _now_. That was the deal, Shappey."

"Lower your voice, for fuck's sake."

"Half, or I walk."

"Fine. Christ. Wait here." 

Martin heard Gordon stomp into the library, and he moved into the hall, frowning. God, what now – surely Gordon wouldn't bribe the police. What for, for goodness' sake? He went into the kitchen and saw Simmons sitting at the table. "Is everything all right?"

"Absolutely," Simmons said with a grin that dissolved when Gordon re-entered the room. "Martin, why don't you go out to the car and I'll be along in just a moment."

"You're not coming, Gordon?"

Gordon twitched a smile at Martin. "Oh, I've been thoroughly vetted, believe me. You'll be fine, pet. Erm, I'll just leave you to it, Constable."

"Detective Sergeant," Martin corrected, and then froze. A horrible sensation of foreboding stole over him, as if he'd stepped into that roomful of snakes in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. He turned to Simmons. "Isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Simmons got to his feet. "Come on, I'll get you settled."

Martin took a step back. "Maybe I could see your warrant card?"

"I don't carry one on special ops, Martin." Simmons smiled again. "Too risky. Come on, off you go."

"I…I…." Martin edged backward down the hall. "I'm suddenly not feeling very comfortable about this."

"Oh, for the love of God, Martin," Gordon snapped. "Don't give the man a hard time."

"Why did he want half?" Martin demanded, hearing his voice climb into an upper register, but unable to stop himself. "Half of _what_? Gordon?" He looked from Gordon, who was pale, to Simmons, who was still smiling. Horror insinuated itself through Martin's trepidation and coiled around it, tightening. "A-are you even a police officer, or are you just s-some thug with a Toyota?"

Gordon's face tightened into a grimace, and he glanced at Simmons. "Christ," he muttered. "Simmons…."

Simmons' very posture seemed to change, alchemising from friendly to menacing in an instant. He lunged forward and grabbed at Martin's wrist. His aim was clumsy, though, and he stumbled forward, half-tripping on the carpet. 

Martin scrambled backward, turned, and fled up the stairs. 

"Get him, for fuck's sake!" Gordon shouted.

_Oh, God, oh, God!_ Martin ran down the hall toward the guest room and slammed the door, locking it with shaking fingers. _Why didn't you run out the front door, you colossal IDIOT?_ He grabbed a chair and pushed it against the door, but it was too short to wedge under the handle. _It always works in movies._ His breath sobbing unevenly out of his chest, he struggled to move the heavy bleached-oak dresser forward, but it wouldn't budge. Just as he was frantically casting about for something else, the handle rattled.

"Open the door, you little cunt!"

Martin dashed to the open window and looked down into darkness. Two storeys, at least five metres, and meticulously clipped hedges on the ground beneath. They might break his fall. Or, more likely, he'd break his leg and Simmons Not-A-Copper would just come round the house and drag him off.

The door trembled under an earsplitting crash.

_Oh, God, he's kicking the lock in!_ Martin snatched the thin summer-weight cover from the bed and tore it down the middle. He tied it round the bedpost with shaking hands.

Another crash filled Martin's ears, and the door swung inward. 

Martin backed toward the window, feeling for the sill. "Oh, no. Please, please…."

Simmons flung the chair aside and charged at Martin, grabbing at his shirt as he tried to escape through the window. "Get back here, you –"

"No!" Martin struggled as hard as he could as the man's arms tightened round his ribcage. He pounded furiously with his free hand – the other was pinned – and kicked in a frenzy of terror and desperation, but the thug dragged him backward and out into the corridor. "Let me go. Let go!"

"Shut _up_ ," Simmons growled, and hauled Martin down the stairs. "Shappey! Shappey! Where the fuck are you?"

"Here." Gordon, his face dead white, stepped out of the library.

"Go find me some fucking gaffer tape, you useless twat." He twisted Martin's arm up behind his back and kicked him behind the knees.

Martin cried out in pain and collapsed to the floor. In a flash Simmons' knee ground into his spine, and there was something cold and sharp against his throat. "What –"

"Shut up. You shut your fucking mouth."

"Please. Please don't," Martin gasped. He strained forward, one hand clawing the carpet, gathering it into woolly flowered folds. Gordon was backing down the hall toward the kitchen, his expression unreadable. The kitchen. If he could free himself – get hold of a knife –

The point of the knife sank into his flesh in a searing slice of pain. "I said _shut up._ "

"I think," said a voice, "that you'd better put that knife down."

Douglas. 

_Douglas!_

 

*


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe many, many thanks to kimberlite for her swell beta skills and steadfast friendship.

*

 

As entry lines went, it wasn't his best. Then again, Douglas hadn't expected to see Martin pinned to the floor by a huge bruiser wielding a wicked-looking jack knife, so all things considered, it wasn't entirely bad. He'd even managed to sound cool and collected, and conceal the fact that he was panting for breath and that his trousers had sustained a considerable tear whilst climbing Gordon's bloody gate.

Not, admittedly, that it rectified the present crisis.

The bruiser, with astonishing speed and dexterity, leapt to his feet, dragging Martin up with him. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, pressing the point of the blade deeper into Martin's skin. A thin rivulet of blood trickled down Martin's neck, staining the collar of his shirt.

"I really don't think that's relevant," Douglas replied, casually brandishing the tyre jack he'd liberated from the boot of his car before vaulting the gate. "Please unhand Mr. Crieff at once."

"Or what, you stupid fucking coffin-dodger? You going to shank me with that jack?" He pulled Martin in tighter and slipped the blade under his chin. Martin made a tiny mewling noise, but held perfectly still.

Douglas took a step forward and was pleased to see the big lout move back. He surveyed the hall – dark, panelled wood, narrow, few escape options – but that made foolish desperation and unthinking action more likely as well. He wasn't afraid of Martin's assailant, but he wasn't foolhardy, either; he'd been foolhardy enough in the last week, and now Martin's life was truly at stake. Which begged the question: just what the hell was going on here? "I assume you're some sort of hired assassin."

"None of your fucking business."

"I thought as much. It would be best if you left now. You've quite a lot of loose ends, you know – car's in the drive, probably a dozen CC cameras salted about, not to mention if you kill Mr. Crieff you'll be pursued hotly – you might not realise it, but he's a high-profile kidnap victim. Best to abandon this before you have murder on what passes for your conscience."

The man blinked. "You radge cunt," he said in a soft, wondering voice. "You think I'm stupid?"

Douglas thought about answering honestly, but was saved – if that was the word, it probably wasn't – by the sudden appearance of Gordon Shappey, who stared open-mouthed at Douglas, then glanced quickly at Martin, who plucked uselessly at the arm locked round his throat.

"Richardson. What in the name of Christ are you _doing_?"

Good question, actually. Douglas parried. "I see you know about this. Funny, when I heard the noises I thought you were indulging in your usual spousal abuse, but then I thought: gosh, that can't be. His husband's missing. But it seems you're outsourcing nowadays."

"Oi," the bruiser snarled. "You know this twat?"

Gordon ignored the query. His cheeks turned pink. "How the fuck did you get in here?"

"Jumped the gate. Inconveniently high, but I suppose that's the point."

Gordon tightened his grasp on a roll of gaffer tape. " _Why_ did you jump the gate?"

"Oh, that's a rather funny story too," Douglas replied, gaining a bit more confidence. The messier and more confused things were, the less likely the bruiser would be able to get away with murdering Martin. Which, given Gordon's lack of surprise at the scenario and the roll of tape, seemed the most logical answer to what was happening. He gave Martin a warm look. _It's all right. It's going to be all right._ "As it happens, a detective inspector from the Met police paid me a call this morning and implied – very oddly, I thought – that you'd suggested that I'd had something to do with your husband's abduction. Not cricket at _all_ , even for you. You can imagine how distressed I was. Well, maybe you can't. At any rate, I thought I'd pop round and have a word with you about that, as well as a word about the vitriol you've been spreading to my potential employers – or would-be employers. I had no idea you were choking down such sour grapes."

"I can't fucking believe this." The big lummox shook his head, and his grip on Martin relaxed somewhat. Martin struggled, and the man tightened his grasp again. "Hold still, you."

Douglas shrugged. "As I approached the gate, I heard a scuffle, and what sounded like a cry of distress. Naturally I investigated – I thought it might have been another kidnap in progress. Imagine my surprise to find your husband here." He smiled pleasantly at the thug. "So this is the kidnapper, I take it?"

"What? No!" Gordon shouted, his face turning a deeper crimson. "It's – this is none of your god-damned business, Richardson, and if you're smart, you'll walk away now, or I'll see to it that you never work in England again. Never."

He'd already seen to that, of course, which meant there wasn't much to lose. 

_Except Martin's life._

"None of my business," Douglas said musingly. "About Martin, Gordon? I knew you treated him badly, but this is a bit excessive, even for you." He only wished he'd known earlier, that he'd paid closer attention sooner. But he'd be damned if he'd let these vile bastards get away with hurting Martin. He gave Martin another glance, and Martin's eyes met his, and crinkled in a brave little smile despite his obvious fear. 

The trust in that smile simultaneously broke and mended Douglas' heart. He spoke with the boldest nonchalance he could muster. "I don't think there's any possibility of either of you getting away with what you've got planned here. Give up now, hand Martin over to me, and we'll forget this happened."

" _Fuckin'_ hell," the thug breathed. "I haven't got time for this shit."

Gordon's hands curled and uncurled round the roll of gaffer tape, mangling its circular perfection. Breathing heavily, he shook his head. "You've got to take them both, Simmons," he muttered.

The bruiser – Simmons – gaped at Gordon. "What the fuck? No!"

"He's _seen_ you, you stupid jackass," Gordon snapped. "You've got to –" He swallowed. "Do them both."

Oh. Interesting.

Martin struggled against Simmons again. "Gordon, please – don't do this."

"Shut him up," Gordon whispered.

Simmons pushed the edge of the blade against Martin's throat, and Martin cried out. More blood ran, bright red.

"Don't!" Douglas took another step forward, holding out a hand. "Stop."

"Back up, fuckwit," Simmons snarled. He glared at Gordon. "This isn't a two-for-one, Shappey. You want rid of both of them, you pay double."

"It's not my fault you're not quick enough to take care of things efficiently!" Gordon shouted. "You could have had him out ten minutes ago."

"And you could make your fucking gate secure! This isn't my problem." Simmons dragged Martin toward the kitchen. Douglas took another step forward. "Stay _back_ , I said!"

"Please, Gordon – just let Douglas go!" Martin cried, his voice a bit strangled thanks to Simmons' meaty arm pressing against his windpipe. "He hasn't done anything wrong, he was just…erm…." Martin trailed off, his eyes darting from Gordon to Douglas. Futilely, he batted at Simmons' arm again, trying to claw free. Simmons yanked him backward, off his feet, further away from Douglas' reach.

Gordon frowned, then tilted his head to one side, studying Martin. He turned back to Douglas. "Douglas?" he echoed softly. "Douglas," he said again. "Not _Captain_ Richardson. Douglas." He pivoted on his heel and studied Martin again. 

Douglas decided it was time to act. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. "I'm only going to say this once: let Mr. Crieff go or I phone the police. They'll be here before you can even pull out of the drive."

"You do that, I'll have Simmons slit his throat," Gordon said.

"And get blood all over your lovely kitchen floor? Evidence," Douglas taunted. He glanced at Simmons and Martin and Gordon; they were in the kitchen now, and Simmons and Martin were close to the garden door. Two more steps and they'd be outside. _Damn it. What now?_

"What the fuck's going on here?" Gordon demanded.

Again, good question. "Did you engineer all this yourself, Gordon? I must say you've done a bad job of it."

"Why'd you call him _Douglas_ , Martin?" Gordon inquired. "What's he to you, hm?"

"Just let him go," Martin begged. "Please."

"You tell me why you called him _Douglas_."

"Because that's his name," Martin said desperately. "Gordon, _please_ \--"

"Were you fucking him when my back was turned, Richardson? Is that it?" He grinned sardonically, his upper lip curling to display a row of capped white teeth. "Don't look so surprised. You think I didn't have you checked out when I first hired you? Quite a reputation you've got. The smuggling, the boozing, fast cars, fast women, fast men." He turned to Martin. "Was he fucking you, Martin? Another notch on his bedpost if you were, let me tell you."

Martin had stopped struggling. "You've got a filthy mind, Gordon." He spoke with a quiet force that made Douglas proud despite the thick tension in the air.

Gordon emitted a short, barking laugh. "Don't I just. What am I thinking – you're hardly his type. He goes for more glamorous sorts of people, don't you, Richardson?"

"Who I choose to befriend isn't a particle of your business," Douglas replied calmly. "And if you can't see Martin's worth, that certainly isn't my problem. You don't deserve him."

"Oh, what's this? Don't tell me you two found time to have it off somehow." Gordon laughed again, but it was patently false. Sweat beaded his brow and his eyes darted frantically back and forth.

"Christ, enough!" Simmons roared. "Shappey, you're paying double or I'm gone."

"I told you – he's _seen_ you," Gordon retorted. "You're in too deep now."

"Then if I get caught, I'll take you down with me," Simmons said. "That's a promise."

Gordon's lip curled upward again. "That's fucking extortion, that is."

"No honour among thieves," Douglas commented drily. "Scarcely a novel concept to you, Gordon. Can't imagine why you're so hesitant to pay. You stand to gain quite a bit, don't you?" He glanced at Martin, who frowned in puzzlement. _Sorry, Martin. One more illusion shattered, I suppose._

Martin looked from Douglas to Gordon. "Stand to gain – I don't –"

"That's right," Gordon said. "Why hide it now, eh? Sorry, pet. I was hoping you wouldn't come back – it would have saved me a lot of trouble. Insurance, you see. I've got to make it pay one way or the other. But you're right, Richardson. I'll have some dosh left over. I'll pay your price, Simmons. Do me one favour, though – make it slow for Captain Richardson here."

Douglas didn't move, but his blood suddenly felt considerably cooler.

"Come on and watch," Simmons invited.

"Thanks, I won't." Gordon proffered the tape. "You asked for this."

Simmons let out a huge sigh. "How many hands do you think I have? _You_ fucking do it."

Watching the two men bicker, Douglas silently thumbed his phone into life.

Simmons smiled. "Nice. Nice try." He moved the blade up Martin's face until it grazed the lower lashes of his right eye. Martin stifled a gasp and went rigid. "You punch one single 9, and I take his eye out."

"If you're going to kill us both –" 

"I'm going to kill you both anyway. How slowly the slippery little fuck dies is up to you. Now – hand the phone to Shappey. _Carefully_."

Douglas made a mental checklist of his options. _One: hand the phone to Gordon. Comply with the knife-wielding madman and accept the rapid conclusion of your life. Two: attempt something physical and probably fail in the attempt as knife-wielding madman has Martin in close proximity. Using Gordon as hostage likely to backfire as Gordon is essentially knife-wielding madman's chip and PIN machine and nothing more. Three:_

He didn't have a three. His options, it seemed, were distressingly limited.

There _had_ to be a three.

"The phone," Simmons repeated, and traced the tip of the knife sideways. Martin cringed without moving.

Douglas handed the mobile to Gordon, who stuffed it in his pocket.

"Your car keys, too. Quick."

Fishing them from his pocket, Douglas tossed the keys to Gordon. 

"Now what?" Sweat was freely running down Gordon's face. "Time's wasting, for God's sake."

"Now we go for a little ride," Simmons said. "You get me the other half of the cash, Shappey. You –" Simmons indicated Douglas with a jerk of his chin. "You're driving. And I'll ride in the back with Martin here just to make sure you don't do anything stupid. Shappey, give what's-his-name the tape."

Gordon frowned and handed the tape to Douglas. "I'll get the money," he muttered, and darted down the hall toward the library.

Douglas turned to Simmons. "Brave sort, isn't he?"

"Shut up. Rip off a length and tie Martin's hands up." Simmons spun Martin round neatly, keeping the blade close to his eye. "Hold still, yeah?" He smiled down at Martin.

The tape made an ugly tearing sound as Douglas ripped a long piece from the roll – an all-too-familiar sound. _One way or another, I got him into this. I've got to get him out somehow._

"Hands behind your back," Simmons instructed.

Martin complied without a word. Douglas gathered Martin's wrists together and gently squeezed his hands. Martin squeezed back. 

"I'll try not to hurt you," Douglas murmured.

"Thank you." Martin's voice was equally soft.

Simmons watched in amusement. "Do it properly or he'll lose an eye. So were you two fucking, or what?" Douglas glared at him, and he shrugged. "I'm not judging, mind you. Just curious."

"No," Martin replied. "We weren't."

"Okay. Just asking." Simmons spun Martin back around and tested his bonds. "All right – not first rate but not terrible. Once I get my money, we'll get on the road."

"Marvelous," Douglas said. "Can't wait."

Gordon re-entered the kitchen carrying, to Douglas' wry amusement, a Sainsbury's bag. _Convenient to keep that sort of cash on hand._ He thrust the bag at Simmons. "There. _Half_ for both of them. The rest when I've got evidence the job is done."

"You could come along – you'd see the evidence that much quicker."

"No," Gordon said flatly.

"Gordon prefers other people to do his dirty work," Douglas said. "Take it from me."

"Go fuck yourself, Richardson."

"And he's got such imaginative conversational skills," Douglas added.

"All right, enough," Simmons snarled, snatching the bag. "You'll have to hide his car. I'll get rid of it later for a thousand extra. Sundry expenses. You," he said, pointing at Douglas. "You first. If you try to make a break for it, little Martin here gets a handspan of steel through the eyeball."

Douglas took a deep breath and nodded. "Understood." He smiled reassuringly – he hoped – at Martin, then opened the back garden door and stepped outside into the cool night air. There had to be something he could do. He wasn't bound, at least; that was an unexpected bonus. How to get Martin away from Simmons without hurting him, though?

He heard Martin's voice. "Gordon – Gordon, please don't do this. This isn't you, it's _not_. You wouldn't – please –" There was a brief scuffling noise, and Simmons dragged Martin outside, still holding the knife up to his face. "Simmons –"

"Quiet. One more sound and your friend here gets to watch his intestines rearranged."

Martin clamped his mouth shut, looking as if he were about to cry. He cast a pleading glance at Douglas, then hissed as Simmons twisted his arm. 

"Come on. In the car."

Douglas climbed into the front seat and waited as Simmons pushed Martin into the back and clambered in alongside. "Now remember, don't fuck with me and I'll do you both the favour of killing you quick. Fuck with me, and you'll be begging me to kill you." He handed the keys to Douglas. "Start her up."

Douglas started the car and glanced over his shoulder as he backed down the drive. 

_Oh my God._

His heart skipped a beat as the gate slid silently open, and he braked.

" _Drive_ , fuckwit!"

Douglas smiled at Simmons. "No."

He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as brilliant light flooded the car and two dozen dark-clad figures surrounded them, weapons drawn.

"Put down the knife," a hoarse voice said calmly. "Now."

Simmons wasn't as stupid as he looked. He put his hand out the window, and the knife clattered onto the surface of the drive.

 

*

 

The police had seemingly bought the story Douglas had cooked up on the fly that he'd wanted a word with Gordon about his smear tactics, and with almost no effort at that as they were more interested in Martin's reappearance. There had been some muttering about criminal trespass, but a subsequent rebuttal of extenuating circumstances had put everything to rights. In fact, Douglas was being treated as something of a hero which, had he not been a superlative actor, would have caused him to burst into uncontrollable laughter under ordinary conditions.

Well, that wasn't all, not really. The other thing was Martin's face. He looked exhausted and traumatised and seeing it, Douglas had extinguished the laughter bubbling up inside him at once. Gordon Shappey was an angry, bitter, vindictive sod, and Douglas wouldn't have put it past him to sell his own mother for a comfortable profit, but he, and certainly not Martin, wouldn't have pegged him as a murderer, even a murderer-by-proxy. Martin had received his share of unpleasant revelations over the past week, but this was by far the worst. They'd lingered at the house for a bit after Simmons and Gordon had been escorted away – Gordon protesting loudly all the while – and Douglas had heard Martin's slightly dazed answers to police questioning. The police were gentle with him, and had let him ride with Douglas in the back of a squad car as they drove to the station. They hadn't spoken, but on the way, Martin's hand had slipped into Douglas' and squeezed; Douglas had squeezed back, and Martin had smiled.

Douglas' heart had unclenched a bit at that.

Before they'd been ushered into separate rooms, Detective Inspector Roy, the DI with the nice smile who'd visited Douglas earlier, had turned to them both. "Someone will take you back to your car, Mr. Richardson – the scene should be cleaned up shortly. We'll have to keep you here for a few hours, Mr. Crieff, but we'll drive you home afterward."

"I don't want to go back to the house," Martin said faintly.

"Understandable. We can find accommodations for you if you're not feeling safe, or you're welcome to call a friend or relative if you like."

"You can stay with me if you like, Martin," Douglas said. "I'll wait for you." Was that risky? Too late now, if it was.

"Would you?" Martin gave Douglas a grateful look. "Thank you."

Had it not been for the presence of Inspector Roy, Douglas would have pulled Martin into his arms and kissed him senseless or close to it. "Not at all."

A police officer led Martin into a room and closed the door. Inspector Roy turned to Douglas. "That's very good of you. You can probably see that Mr. Crieff's traumatised and he's likely feeling gratitude toward you for contributing to his rescue. Staying with you might make him feel safe."

There were far too many ironies in all that to even bother untangling. "It's no trouble. I'm very fond of Mr. Crieff."

"Are you?" Inspector Roy regarded Douglas curiously. "You didn't say this morning."

"You didn't ask."

Inspector Roy pursed her lips and didn't speak for a moment. "Fair enough. This way, if you please, Mr. Richardson."

The police kept at him for a while, but fortunately their questions were centred round Gordon and Simmons' behaviour; Douglas' motivations and presence at the house went largely unexplored. His usual extraordinary luck notwithstanding, Douglas couldn't quite believe things were going so well. At any moment, he half-expected the mild line of Miss Marple-ish questioning to transmute into blinding lights, hectoring shouts, and steel bars slamming shut in front of his face. None of that happened, however, and after an hour or so Douglas was installed in a dreary waiting room with the sort of long, low-slung polyurethane sofas actively hostile to comfortable sitting. Douglas settled into one, trying not to think of the thousand possibly unhygienic bodies that had occupied it prior to him, picked up a few magazines from the table next to it, and began to read.

His phone buzzed with a text. He recognised Sophie's notification – it was _A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square_ , which he'd sung to her as a baby – and opened it at once.

_Meet for lunch tues 1pm l'abate? Sold amanda harlech 3 bags 10 pr shoes huge commission my treat!_

He'd no idea who Amanda Harlech was, but he was delighted for Sophie. He answered quickly. _Love to. See you there._

To be able to see Sophie, without worrying. Lovely. And frankly, even lunch at L'Abate was beyond his means at the moment and likely would be for a long time.

This thought, which would have caused him to blanch a few weeks ago, now made him smile, then chuckle. _All those schemes and still penniless._

Penniless, but not bereft.

He smiled again.

The door opened, and in strolled Carolyn and Hercules, both clutching folders thickly stuffed with paper.

Douglas sat up but the sofa forced him into a semi-slouch again. "Carolyn – Herc. What on earth are you two doing here?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Douglas. Who do you suppose called the police?"

"I gather that's not much more than a rhetorical question," Douglas said. "But how did you know I was here?"

Carolyn turned to Herc. "I may be having second thoughts about all this."

"He's had a rough night, darling. Even I might be a bit flustered. Go easy on him," Herc replied affectionately.

"Odd as it is, I'm not quite following," Douglas said.

"Douglas," Carolyn said, enunciating each syllable slowly, "we were at Gordon's house. More precisely, we were pulling up as you were clambering over the fence which, by the way, is probably not the best idea for a man of your age, if your co-ordination was anything by which to judge."

"Let's leave my advanced years out of this, shall we?" Douglas retorted a bit frostily. "What on earth were you doing there?"

"I believe I told you that I might stop by with discreetly veiled threats."

"Oh yes, so you did," Douglas said. "And you saw me?"

"Yes. Naturally, we didn't recognise you from behind, otherwise I mightn't have phoned the police. As it happens, I'm rather glad I _didn't_ recognise you."

"Good God, so am I," Douglas said in wonderment. "I never even asked for an explanation – I assumed they were simply staking the place out or whatever one calls it. That's absolutely extraordinary, Carolyn."

"I call it good timing," Carolyn said, seating herself on one of the sofas. "We stayed well back during the confrontation, which I admit was exciting to watch. We just finished the interview with the police and my solicitor. Is Martin still here, by the way? I thought we'd give him a lift – he looked a bit ragged from afar."

"He's still being questioned. I said I'd take him home, though – you needn't bother. It's kind of you to offer."

"I see. Very well, then. How is he, in your estimation, Douglas? I think he's less cynical than I am – I wasn't a bit surprised by what Gordon attempted to do to him. I told the police that, too."

Douglas silently blessed Carolyn. "Yes, I think it upset him quite a bit. I'm sure I'll hear the full story in due course and doubtless it's disturbing, but ultimately I think he'll be all right." Hesitant to say anything more revealing, he added, "Of course he'll have to make that determination himself."

"Mm. Yes." 

Was Carolyn peering at him a bit more intently than usual? _No. You're tired and paranoid, that's all._ "I'm glad you were able to tell your side of things."

"Oh, yes. And believe me, the press is going to have a field day with all this, and I for one am not sorry in the least. I suspect most of Gordon's estate is going to be liquidated, but I think that I might benefit more than I had originally thought. I don't know about Martin since they are still married, but technically Gordon hadn't defrauded him in the marriage."

Douglas smiled a little. "I don't think Martin minds. He doesn't strike me as terribly materialistic."

"He's not, I think, and at heart I'm not either, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with seeing justice done," Carolyn said. "At any rate, things _are_ going to change a bit. Perhaps more than a bit." She turned to Herc. "It's been a long evening, and I'm famished."

Herc nodded. "Japanese?"

"Not unless you take me to that place that does the lovely Wagyu strips. It's still open, I believe."

"A meat eater with expensive tastes," Herc sighed. "Tell me again why I'm madly in love with you?"

"My ineffable feminine charms, of course," Carolyn said, rising to her feet. "Good night, Douglas. You were very brave this evening. I'll be in touch."

Douglas rose as well, wondering why she would be in touch with him. "All right. Carolyn, Herc – whatever happens, I owe you both a debt of gratitude for calling the police."

"Yes, you do. Fortunately for you, I might be able to think of a way you can repay that."

That sounded ominous. "Oh?" Douglas inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, and you might actually enjoy it. All in good time, however. Good night." She and Herc sailed out of the dingy little waiting room, bickering amiably about possible restaurant destinations.

Douglas watched them go, then plunked himself back onto the unyielding sofa. Love certainly made for unusual couples. He briefly wondered about Carolyn's plan for a favour in return and decided he'd cope with it when the time came, if indeed it ever did. He went back to the magazine, blearily looking over a dull story about mobile phone usage on American transatlantic flights.

After what seemed hours, the door opened again and Martin came in accompanied by a policewoman. He looked tired enough to fall asleep where he stood and his clothes were rumpled and dirty and bloodstained from the night's ordeal, but when he saw Douglas he smiled. "Hi."

"Hi." Douglas got to his feet. "All through?"

"Yes. They'll give us a lift to Gordon's house. Your car, I mean. If that's all right with you."

"Of course. Of course it's all right." Douglas followed Martin and the policewoman to the car park, vehicles swathed in greyish-blue early morning mist. He must have nodded off over the magazine. _Christ, you've been up for nearly twenty-four hours. Small wonder you feel unsteady. And poor Martin looks as if he's been run over by a train._

They didn't speak on the short drive to Douglas' car. The policewoman handed Douglas his keys, told Martin they'd be in contact with him, bade them a pleasant day, and departed, leaving Douglas and Martin standing beside the Lexus.

Douglas looked at Martin. "Are you hungry?"

Martin shook his head. "But if you want to go somewhere, I don't mind."

"No. We'll just go home."

That had an unexpectedly nice ring to it.

Douglas managed to keep his eyes open long enough to drive home. They stumbled into the house and up the stairs. Martin made for the guest room. "Er – Martin…." _Don't press him. Not yet._ "Do you need anything before I collapse?"

Martin bit his lip. "No. I just need to sleep for twelve or fourteen hours. Y-you don't mind?"

"Certainly not. I'll be unconscious myself. Well - _mi casa es su casa_ ," he said lightly. "If you're up before I am, feel free to help yourself."

"All right." Martin half-turned, then pivoted to face Douglas again. "Douglas?"

"Yes?"

Martin moved close and put his arms round Douglas, then buried his face in Douglas' neck. 

_Oh, Martin._ Douglas held Martin close, stroked his hair, and rubbed gentle circles on his back. He was too tired to do more, and some emotions were a bit too close to the surface to think clearly. After a while, he steered Martin to the guest bed, helped him out of his shirt and trousers, and pulled up the bedclothes, stopping short of kissing him on the forehead. 

Martin was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow, and though Douglas was close to collapsing himself, he watched Martin for a few moments, observing the peace that finally stole over that oddly handsome and utterly lovable face.

He leant close, brushed the lank curls from Martin's forehead, and then changed his mind and kissed Martin on the lips.

"Sleep well," Douglas whispered.

 

*

 

The clock read half past two when he headed down to the kitchen, blinking in the bright daylight, his circadian rhythms off-kilter. Martin's door had still been closed and Douglas hadn't wanted to disturb him, so he moved around quietly, making coffee and fetching the newspaper. He was slightly startled to see Martin's photograph on the front page with the headline _DRAMATIC RESCUE_ and the sub-header _Millionaire Charged With Attempted Murder In Bizarre Twist_. He hadn't recalled any reporters at the scene nor later at the station, but he might have been more tired than he'd thought.

Douglas sat at the kitchen table and perused the story, slowly sipping his coffee and feeling his body establishing itself as fully conscious once more. The article's tone was nothing short of thrilled at the peculiar shifts in the kidnap case, glossing over Martin's abrupt return in favour of lurid description of the second attempted kidnap/murder and Gordon's involvement in it. Douglas' own part in the fiasco was treated with a fair degree of accuracy, omitting, of course, the real reason he'd turned up. There was some unsurprising speculation that Gordon had engineered the initial abduction, but as it didn't line up correctly with Martin's release, the writer admitted to some loose ends. The police representative interviewed – unnamed, but Douglas suspected Inspector Roy – stated that the hunt for Martin's abductors wasn't over, and thanks to Martin's information they had steadier ground on which to search. Douglas hoped – selfishly, he admitted – that Martin's information had been the simple story they'd agreed on.

He was finishing his second cup of coffee and third reading of the article when he heard a soft tread on the stairs. Martin came down fully dressed though his shirttail hung out of his jeans, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes, his bright hair in a hundred corkscrewed curls. "Hi."

Douglas rose. "Hello there. Want some coffee?"

"Oh, that'd be lovely, thank you. I'll get it, though." Martin retrieved a mug from the cupboard and poured, then took the chair opposite Douglas. "Sorry about this," he said, tugging at his dirty, bloodstained shirt. "The only one I had."

"You can borrow something of mine if you like."

"That's all right. Thanks all the same." Martin stared down at the tabletop, tracing his fingertip along a whorl in the wood.

"Are you up to reading about yourself?" Douglas inquired, sliding the paper along the table.

Wide-eyed, Martin picked the paper up and began to read. After a few moments he looked up at Douglas. "I didn't tell them anything much, you know. About…before."

"I didn't think you had," Douglas said, relieved despite the faint shame that nudged at him. "I expect you'll be deluged with requests for interviews in a day or two."

Vague alarm flowered on Martin's face. "Oh, gosh. I-I don't think I want to do that."

"You needn't do _anything_ you don't want to do, Martin." Douglas hesitated. "You could stay here a while, if you like. They didn't say where you went after speaking to the police. Perhaps in a week or so the furor will have died down."

"Yeah, says here 'a friend' took me home." Martin glanced up and gave Douglas a shy smile.

Would it be inappropriate to sweep Martin up into a kiss? Yes, probably. Douglas scraped his chair backwards and stood. "Are you hungry? I'm running a bit short of delicacies but I can probably manage pasta primavera."

"Anything," Martin said. "I'm starving."

"Excellent. Why don't you go have a shower and I'll get it going. Borrow something from my clothes. They'll be big on you, but it's better than that shirt." Glad for something to do, Douglas bustled round the kitchen, whipping up a quick primavera and singing along to the kitchen radio, a channel that played a maximum of music and a minimum of news. By the time Martin came back to the kitchen dressed in Douglas' grey dressing gown, his hair wet and combed down, Douglas was ladling generous portions onto plates. "Perfect timing." 

They ate hungrily, with little conversation. Douglas chased the last few bites of rotini with his fork. "So. You'll have quite a lot to sort out in the next few weeks, I think. Carolyn was at the police station last night –"

Martin chuckled. "I know. She was the one who called the police, they said. Thought you were a burglar."

"Yes." Douglas bridled a little thinking of Carolyn's uncomplimentary remark about his age. He wasn't _that_ old. "She seemed to think – with the assistance of her solicitor – that Gordon had defrauded her in the post-divorce agreement. I suspect she's one in a rather long line."

"You're probably right." Martin drew a deep breath and set down his fork. "I'm not looking forward to any of this. I just want to be free of him."

"I agree, but my advice, if you're keen on hearing it from someone completely skint, is to not make any hasty moves until you've got all the information you can possibly get your hands on. You have legal rights, you know."

"It won't amount to much," Martin said. "I'm hoping to get enough to buy a secondhand van, though."

"A van? What on earth for?"

"My job," Martin said simply. "Remember I told you that before I married Gordon I had a removal van?"

"Yes, that's right." Douglas blinked. "You'd go back to removals?"

Martin stuck out his chin. "I'm not ashamed of it or anything."

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I just meant…it's quite a change after…living in the lap of luxury, that's all."

A rueful grin spread over Martin's face. "Maybe. But – I don't know. Do you want to hear something funny?"

"I'm all ears."

"I didn't really like that whole…." Martin's hand spiraled toward the ceiling. "Lifestyle. All that formality, all the – the _stuff_."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I could get used to _stuff_ ," Douglas said.

"You'd get bored," Martin said earnestly. "Be honest, Douglas. Wouldn't you rather fly than spend all your time fussing over the perfect sculpture to put in the drawing room that you don't even like, but you know your friends would be impressed – or getting the right seats at the Ivy and pitching a fit if your favourite table wasn't available at short notice, or making certain that your car was the newest, most expensive one on the market? I don't know, maybe it's nice for some people, but with Gordon, it was always a competition. I don't think he ever actually _enjoyed_ his money. It certainly never seemed that way."

"Maybe," Douglas said, "it was because he didn't earn it honestly."

A blush spread over Martin's cheeks. "Well –"

"Crime doesn't pay."

Martin stared at the tabletop, tracing his finger once more over a whorl. "No," he muttered. "I don't think it does."

"Actually," Douglas said, "I think it does. Sometimes, that is. And in unexpected ways."

"What –" Martin peered at Douglas in consternation, his brow and nose wrinkling. "What do you – oh." The pink in his cheeks deepened to crimson. " _Oh._ " He looked down again, but an abashed smile teased at the corners of his mouth. His next words were uttered in a near whisper. "You really think so?"

"I know so," Douglas replied. A lovely conviction of truth blossomed in his heart. 

Martin got up and moved to Douglas' side. He bent and kissed Douglas softly on the corner of his mouth. "I love you, you know. I-is that really daft?"

"A little _folie à deux_ never killed anyone. Well, not us, at any rate." Douglas got up and touched the side of Martin's face. "No-one would ever believe this, though."

"Stockholm Syndrome."

"And Lima Syndrome." Douglas shrugged. "Even clichés have to originate with the truth."

"I-I told myself that once I left Gordon, I'd come to visit you, if you were still around, and see if you – if you were interested in, erm, dating or something. I didn't want to presume."

"I'm interested."

"I told myself we didn't have to move fast."

Douglas smiled. "We don't."

"But, erm…." Martin's face was still red. "I wouldn't mind." He untied the belt to the dressing gown and stepped close to Douglas.

 _Well, hello there._ "I wouldn't mind either," Douglas said, and reached between Martin's legs.

"Oh!" Martin took a shaky breath, then wound his arms round Douglas' neck and kissed him.

Douglas allowed himself to be kissed for a moment, then pulled back. "You really want to do this in the kitchen? Not that I mind – I consider myself a modern, experimental sort of fellow – but maybe the first time we could be a bit more comfortable. I like beds, myself."

"All right." Martin slipped his hand down into the waistband of Douglas' trousers and brushed it against Douglas' cock, a tentative caress that was instantly arousing, electrifying. 

Douglas gasped and stood perfectly still, letting the sudden tide of sensation overwhelm him. Had he gone without sex for so long that the barest touch made his cock leap to attention? He didn't think so. He hastily undid his trousers and yanked down the front of his boxers. Then he cupped Martin's arse with one hand, drew him closer, and rubbed against Martin, kissing his mouth, pressing their cocks together, up and down, an exquisite friction that made his knees tremble. He pulled back and stared at Martin's swollen mouth. "On the other hand," he rasped, "who needs a bed?" He kissed Martin's mouth again and, feeling Martin trying to kiss back, withdrew a little. "Hold on. Let me." He dove in again and suckled Martin's tongue, caressing his arse, fondling and squeezing gently, and rubbing himself against Martin at the same time until Martin was clutching at him and making small incoherent noises. They moved backward in clumsy tandem until Martin bumped against the fridge and groaned.

"Douglas –"

"I've usually got a bit more _savoir faire_ than this."

"I don't care." Martin rubbed desperately, undulating against Douglas' stiff prick. "I want it, I want it, oh, God, please –"

"Wait," Douglas said in a hoarse voice. He pulled back and leant against the fridge, breathing hard. "We're going to do this properly. We're neither of us adolescents. Besides, I've got lubricant and condoms upstairs, but I don't make a habit of keeping them in my kitchen cupboards. Though maybe I will in future."

Martin frowned. "But don't you just want to –" He shook his head. "Erm, shag?"

"Martin, look down. Does it appear that I want anything else?" Martin smiled, and Douglas touched his flushed cheek. "Despite what's just happened, I've never felt sex was something to get over with in a hurry. Do you understand?"

"Yes, it's just th-that I've never…erm, I've never really done it any other way."

"You weren't a virgin when you met Gordon, surely?" Douglas asked, belatedly realising the question was rude and prying. "Not," he amended, "that there's anything wrong with that."

"No, no, I wasn't a virgin. But there have only been two other people, and neither of them were exactly…you know, skyrockets and moving earth and all that."

"Ah." Douglas considered a moment, then couldn't prevent a lascivious grin. "I think, then, you're in for a treat, even if I do say so myself. Come upstairs." He re-fastened his trousers, then took Martin by the hand and led him up to his bedroom. Slowly, methodically, he closed the door, drew the curtains, and turned the bed down. 

Martin stood in the centre of the room, biting his lip and looking a little uncertain. "I feel sort of weird doing this."

"Why?"

"It just seems so…deliberate, I suppose."

"Not Gordon's style, I take it?"

"No." Martin stuck his hands in the pockets of the too-large dressing gown. "Gordon's style was more like shoving me up against whatever surface happened to be nearest and going at it as if the house was burning down round his ears."

"And did you enjoy that?" Douglas drew Martin to the bed and urged him to sit.

"No, not really," Martin said. "Not at all, actually."

"Isn't it fortunate, then, that our methods differ?" Douglas took Martin's face in his hands and kissed him again, a gentle kiss that explored and tasted lingeringly, feather-light touches that grew deeper in tiny increments until his tongue plundered Martin's mouth slowly. Then he pulled away again. "Tell me what you want."

"Whatever you want."

"Well, that won't do. Tell me." Douglas slid the dressing gown off Martin's shoulder and caressed his bare hip. 

"I don't know," Martin whispered. "I-I'm sorry, I feel really stupid."

"Then we'll move at a snail's pace." Douglas stood and pulled his shirt over his head, then pushed down his trousers and underwear and kicked them away. "Until you decide what you want." He brushed the back of his hand over Martin's vertebrae and kissed his shoulder, nibbling at a constellation of freckles on the pale skin. "Lovely."

Martin shuddered a little and reached for Douglas. "Should I –"

"Let's take turns, shall we?" Douglas captured Martin's hands and gently pinned them in his lap. "Do you mind?"

"N-no."

"Excellent." Douglas gently urged Martin downward until he lay on his back, staring up at Douglas with bright eyes. He touched Martin's cheek again, his fingertips rasping lightly over Martin's unshaven face, and trailed down his neck to the hollow of his throat. He let his hands glide down Martin's chest, tracing round his nipples and then over them, back and forth until they were stiff and Martin was breathing heavily, his cock stirring. "Do you like that?"

Martin nodded. "Oh…oh yes." He smiled shyly. "It's very nice."

Douglas bent and touched the tip of his tongue to Martin's nipple. "That?"

"Mm." Martin shivered. "Yes."

"Good." Douglas moved his hand to Martin's belly and traced his fingertip round Martin's navel.

Martin twitched. "Ticklish."

"Not in a good way?"

"No, a bit too much."

"All right." Douglas was almost fully hard again, but he'd wait; age (he muttered inwardly at an invisible Carolyn) had its benefits. He avoided Martin's stiffening cock and slipped his hand down to the inside of Martin's thigh, stroking softly. "That?"

"It's lovely. Would you kiss me again?"

"It would be my pleasure," Douglas replied gravely, and bent to kiss Martin's mouth once more. He kissed in the same rhythm he used to stroke Martin's inner thigh – first slow, languorous, with small swipes of his tongue against Martin's until he felt Martin's breathing quicken and felt arms round his neck. Then he kissed deeper, steadily, his hand moving up again to caress Martin's cock and cup his balls, moving his thumb across sensitive skin.

"Oh, God."

"Bad?"

"No, not bad, not bad – I mean it's really good, not just not bad, you – don't stop, I mean. Please?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Douglas kissed Martin again, supporting the back of Martin's head with his free hand. When he pulled back, he saw that Martin's eyes were blazing with some indeterminate emotion and his lips were parted and wet – voluptuous, nearly sinful when combined with his quickening breath. Douglas yearned to simply take Martin, but he wouldn't, he wouldn't get it over with; he'd go mad with his own suppressed longing first.

_I never gave him more than a second glance. And now I can't tear my eyes away. Christ, he's lovely._

"I'm not sure I c-can last much longer," Martin whispered.

"Just a little longer," Douglas said, and curled his hand round Martin's cock.

"Oh –" Martin thrust his hips forward. "Oh, God, please –" He closed his hand over Douglas', forcing his grip to strengthen, urging Douglas' hand into motion. "Douglas –"

"Slow," Douglas whispered against Martin's ear. "Slow."

"I _can't_."

"But it'll feel wonderful." Douglas removed his hand and rummaged in the drawer of the bedside table, locating a condom and some lubricant. “Shove over a bit, Martin." He lay down next to Martin and gently tugged his arm. "Up. Get on top of me."

"You…erm, how?" Martin was panting, red in the face. His hair, still damp from the shower, had sprung into wildly curling life from its prison of combed-down severity.

"Over my legs," Douglas said, indicating exactly where he wanted Martin to straddle him. "Come on."

"Okay." Martin swung one leg over Douglas' body. The tip of his cock gleamed wetly. "Like this?"

"Don't be afraid to put your weight on me." Douglas grasped Martin's hips and guided him down. "Like that. Now take my cock in your hand."

Martin complied timorously and with such anxiety in his expression that Douglas had to school his features into neutrality lest his astonishment betray him. _God, he's really hasn't…bloody Gordon, that bastard. Never bothered to teach him a thing._

"Good. Very good." Douglas sucked in a quick breath. "Oh, _really_ good. Now –" He handed Martin the condom. "Do you want this, or should I have it?"

The anxiety in Martin's eyes increased exponentially. "I don't – that is, if you don't mind, I'd rather not. Right now. If that's okay."

 _Never let Martin fuck him, either. His bloody loss._ "It's okay. Will you put it on me?"

"It's been a while since –"

"I'll help you," Douglas assured him. "Don't worry."

With trembling fingers, Martin ripped the condom open and managed to get it onto the tip of Douglas' cock.

"That's it. Now just unroll it…there you are, slide it down –" Douglas took another shuddering breath. "That's it, Martin. Now the lube, please."

Martin was more confident with the lube, squeezing some onto his palm and closing his hand until it warmed, then sliding his hand round Douglas' cock and stroking gently.

"That's it. There. Oh, clever…clever hands, lovely." Douglas reached out and rubbed his hand against Martin's slippery one, then enclosed Martin's cock again. Just enough to make things a bit more interesting. "Raise up a bit and move forward."

"Okay." Martin moved up until his thighs and knees gripped Douglas' chest. He leant down and kissed Douglas. "Now, please, now."

"Right." Douglas took his cock in his own hand and put his other hand on Martin's bare hip. "Back up, that's it – and down. A bit to the left – no, your left – ah, _God_. That's it." He felt Martin's body tightening round his prick, a delicious pressure that brought beads of sweat to his upper lip. He wrapped his hand over Martin's cock once more and began to stroke. "Move a bit for me. Just a bit."

"You're bigger," Martin gasped, "bigger –"

"Does it hurt?"

"No, no, it's _aghh_ \-- oh, God, no, it's fantastic." Martin's face was crimson and he arched his back a bit, thrusting his pelvis toward Douglas' hand. "Don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop…." His knees tightened against Douglas' waist. "Harder, oh, God."

"Keep moving," Douglas gasped, greedy and ready to let go. "Go on, go on."

"Oh, God – _oh_!" Martin threw his head back and let out a guttural, abandoned cry as he came, his semen spilling over Douglas' closed fist. "Finish, hurry –"

Douglas gripped Martin by the hips and held him still, stabbing upward, plunging deep and hard, fucking Martin's arse until he climaxed with a shout, his fingers digging into Martin's flesh. He closed his eyes, gasping for breath, wave after wave of ecstasy washing over him and leaving him spent. 

Martin's chest and belly glistened with sweat. Cautiously, he disentangled himself and collapsed next to Douglas, fitting himself against Douglas' body. He didn't speak; his breath rasped in and out, and he shivered as if he were cold.

Douglas, still a bit breathless himself, reached down and snagged the sheets and light duvet, bringing them up to cover them both. He held Martin close, revelling in the tang of fresh sweat mingled with the clean fragrance of Martin's damp curls. Impulsively, he kissed Martin's ear. "Now that," he whispered, "was spectacular."

"Oh, yeah," Martin said. "Wait, was it?"

"Yes." Douglas pulled Martin in for another kiss. "It was."

"Gordon never went in for anything like that. He wasn't very – erm, very patient."

"I'm not Gordon."

"No, you're ruddy well _not_ ," Martin said.

Douglas chuckled, then pulled off the condom and deposited it in the little bin by the bed. He kissed Martin's ear. "Don't you think it's better for waiting a bit?"

"I'm just not used to it," Martin said, and tentatively reached out to push a lock of hair away from Douglas' brow. "It's lovely, I just – I expect it'll take some getting used to."

"I've got time," Douglas said. "What about you?"

Martin nodded. "I want to. Yes. I'm going to get my own place –"

"You can stay here," Douglas said.

"Oh, that's – that's really kind, Douglas, but I need…I need to be alone a bit. Just to prove I can be. I know it sounds silly, but I have to do it. I'm going to sell my watch, my cuff links –"

"I'd like to have you here, though," Douglas said. "Don't be proud, Martin. I'm not Gordon."

"I know," Martin replied, his eyes shining. He raised himself up on his elbows. "That's why I'm not afraid to say it to you. I'm going to get my own place, and make my own way in the world and work out some way to get my licence, and –" He paused for breath, and smiled. "I've had a husband, but I've never had a partner."

"Partner," Douglas said thoughtfully. "I admit it has a rather pleasant ring to it."

"I don't want to push. I…it's going to take a bit of getting used to, not being with Gordon, and I don't want to rush in to anything and have it all…." The blush was back on his cheeks. "I married him impulsively, and that was a mistake. I don't want to ruin it. I love you, and I don't care how it happened, but still –" He gripped Douglas' hand. "You're not angry?"

Douglas shook his head. "Not in the least. It's very prudent of you. And rather romantic, in its way." He sighed. "But there's a snag."

Martin's brow clouded. "What's that?"

"I'm penniless," Douglas said. "Haven't got a farthing to my name, Martin. And I don't know that Gordon's disgrace will necessarily improve my situation."

"You can always join Icarus Removals," Martin said.

"Ah." It wasn't a tempting prospect. Still, he had to keep his options open. His choices were rather limited. "I was thinking perhaps we might attempt to rob a bank instead."

Martin's mouth dropped open. "Oh, _Douglas_ \--"

"Joking. I'm joking, Martin." Douglas pulled Martin in for a long, luxurious kiss. "I'll think about it. Meanwhile, the housemate offer stands."

"I'll think about it," Martin promised, and wrapped his arms round Douglas. "You smell so good."

Always poised, Douglas suddenly found himself perilously close to tears. And for the first time in a very long time, he felt humble. He pulled Martin close and buried his face in the unruly heap of ginger curls. "Partners," he whispered.

"Partners," Martin said, and kissed Douglas' throat.

The phone shrilled. "Oh, Lord – nobody calls this line anymore. Not a reporter, I hope." Douglas heaved a sigh and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Is that Douglas?"

"Carolyn?" Douglas frowned. "Yes, it's –"

"I was going to wait until Wednesday to call, but I can't contain myself," Carolyn said, sounding a bit breathless. "It's early days, but my solicitor and I are completely confident that everything will work out to my satisfaction. I couldn't be more pleased."

"Hold on. Would you care to back up just a bit?" Douglas glanced at Martin, who, pressed close, had heard every word and was frowning intently.

"I have a proposition for you."

Douglas listened to Carolyn's very intriguing proposition and watched Martin's face.

By the time he made his counter-proposition, Martin was beaming joyfully, and Douglas couldn't help a grin of his own. "Very well. You'll keep in touch? Right, until then. 'Bye now." He hung up carefully and turned back to Martin.

"Douglas." Martin's eyes were like night stars. "You're brilliant."

Douglas smiled modestly. "Do you know, I think the Richardson luck might have returned."

 

*

 

Douglas leant against the flimsy wall of the Portakabin, watching Martin fuss with the curls peeking out from under his cap. "Might I suggest a cap with a little less…ah, dictator-esque braiding next time? It would be so much lighter."

"Fine time to tell me!" Martin pushed the curls back under the band of the cap.

"I did tell you, if you recall. You failed to listen."

"Well, you're not always right." Martin looked into the little mirror on the Portakabin wall and sighed. "Oh, all right. _This_ time, anyhow."

"You look marvelous. Stop fretting. Your passenger's a fifty-nine year old lizard who owns a modelling agency. He only has eyes for Ukranian adolescents."

Martin stepped away from the mirror. "Oh God. I feel sick." He pushed his cap back and wiped sweat from his brow. 

"You've been working toward this for years."

"I know, that's why!" Martin began pacing the floor. "What if it was all a terrible mistake?"

"Then you'll have wasted years and thousands and thousands of pounds, and you'll have to go back to removals," Douglas replied with lordly assurance.

"You're no help."

The Portakabin door popped open, and Arthur, dressed in his steward's uniform, dashed in. "We're ready, chaps. Wow, Skip! What a great hat!"

Martin straightened a bit. "You like it?"

"Yeah, it's brilliant! I've never seen one so sparkly!"

Douglas stifled a smile.

"Mum says come on," Arthur continued. "Time to go. Oh, hey – do you want coffee or tea? I'll start sorting it out now so you can have it once we take off."

"Oh, dear," Douglas muttered. "Coffee, I suppose. I'd say 'how hard is it to screw up a coffee?' but I fear retribution from the gods."

"You just said it, Douglas," Arthur pointed out helpfully. "You, Skip?"

"Erm – coffee, please, Arthur. Thank you."

"Right. See you in a bit!" Arthur banged out of the Portakabin.

Douglas smiled at Martin. "Well?"

"He called me Skip," Martin said softly. He looked piercingly at Douglas. "You – you're sure you don't mind? Being first officer and all that?"

"Well, as I'm getting paid and you're not, I can't say as I mind too much," Douglas said. "You could have negotiated for _something_ , you know. It's been quite a while since we made that agreement."

Martin nodded. "I know. But I feel a bit bad for Carolyn – MJN isn't doing all that well, and since I sold the Norfolk house, we've got enough to get by for a long time if we're careful. And anyhow, things are more manageable now that we're living together."

"Took you long enough," Douglas grumbled.

Taking a step forward, Martin touched a finger to Douglas' mouth. "You're rather adorable when you're cross."

"Me, adorable? Perish the thought," Douglas replied with enormous dignity. He settled his own cap. "Well – mustn't keep GERTI waiting. Time to go, Captain Crieff."

Martin's face shone. "Captain Crieff," he said. " _Captain._ " He took a deep breath and grasped Douglas' hand. "Right. Ready?"

Douglas smiled at Martin, former victim, accidental love, devoted partner, and the most brilliant mistake of his entire life.

"Let's fly."

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)


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